


The Ghost of You

by BerwynRose



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Arthur, Bisexual John, Drama, Dutch is an asshole, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff and Angst, I mean not everyone but it's pretty close, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Old Boy is a pickup truck, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Romance, Slow Burn, Spongebob Voice: The Gang's All Here, Swearing, arthur's low self-esteem, musician au, past John/Abigail, the folk musician AU that we didn't need
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerwynRose/pseuds/BerwynRose
Summary: There are nights where John wakes up, breathless with the loss of something he can’t even remember. Phantoms of memories, of dreams - people - linger somewhere outside the edge of his consciousness that he can never reach.Whatever it is he's lost, he needs to get it back.





	1. 14 Days

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a little story idea from a song and, like, now it's a huge multi-chapter venture that I'm totally not ready for, lol.  
> Send help.  
> [Muh Tumblr](https://berwynrose.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this started as a little story idea from a song and, like, now it's a huge multi-chapter venture that I'm totally not ready for, lol.  
> Send help.  
> [Muh Tumblr](https://berwynrose.tumblr.com/)

John has never once had a dream.

At least, none that he can remember.

 

Instead, he falls into moods as he sleeps that are so strong, they linger on, sometimes for hours, into the day. Through his teenage years, the moods had been primarily what he would label as positive - hell, sometimes he was even happy when he woke up. Proud, like he’d accomplished something great.

 

Recently - and by recently, he means the last year and a half - he's been fucking miserable. Every day, he wakes up frustrated, resigned, depressed. He's exhausted and it feels like he's been running for miles on end.

On top of that, there are nights that leave him so angry he feels like wildfire.  It was rare, thankfully, but once in a blue moon he would wake up so fucking mad that he just has to leave - he couldn't bear to keep himself around people or civilization. He gets out of town, drives out into the sun until he's lost in the prairie, and just screams. He screams until he's voiceless and still it's not enough.

 

But, increasingly - and unspeakably worse than his endless anger - is the despair. It leaves him with a black hole in his chest when the sun rises that fully consumes him. He wakes sobbing with total abandon, unable to control himself until he's simply too dehydrated to go on. That crushing emptiness in his chest was as if he'd lost a great piece of himself that he could never replace, not fully.

The world feels blurred and muted for days after. He often wakes up feeling nothing at all.

 

Today, with his room unbearably cold, John wakes up gasping to his alarm with the lingering threat of death and electric currents of pain through his body. The scars on his cheek burn cold.

John wipes a hand down his face and takes a deep breath to slow his heart, exhaling what feels like a piece of his soul in a frosty cloud. The curtains over his window sway, revealing it still cracked from last night with a handful of crushed cigarette butts in the tray on the sill.

John inhales again, taking some comfort in the icy prickle that grows deep in his chest.

He hadn't felt more alive in a long goddamn time.

 

He grabs his phone off his milk crate nightstand and blinks dumbly at the cracked screen. Frowns, rubs at his eyes again, looks back. Confused.

5:45am and Abigail's face smiles at him from a little bubble beside the time.

Abigail sent him a message?

It’s been months since they last spoke.

He sits up in bed, swiping the bubble open.

 

**10:30pm**

_John! I kno its been a lonng while but im back in town for Xmas n N E E D 2 H A N G w/ my best boi_

_U obvs_

_Im havin a show @ Prsn's 2nite n I wud_ _looove_ _u 2 come down 4 it sug_

_Srry its short notice_

_legit just set it up lol_

_Ill snd u the deets so pls come_

_U srsly need 2 meet my bndmte Arthur_

 

_Ps_

_i may have publicly threatened ur truck if u don't show_

_sooo choose wisely? ;)_

_Luv uuu xoxo_

 

John isn’t really any less confused since Abigail has always had atrocious, sometimes bordering on illiterate, texts. The Facebook event page she links helps clear things up enough.

 

The Whaler's Pot presents:

 _\--_ **_Whiskey & Wine _ **\--

With opener

\-- _Javier Escuella_ \--

TONIGHT

Friday, December 14th, at 7:30pm

Tickets $15

! phones and cameras checked at the door !

 

John sighs and scrolls down the page to check the head count: 105 going, 147 interested. He hums - that's a pretty big crowd for a place like The Whaler's. Like, pushing the capacity limit, even. There's a little flutter of pride in his heart for Abigail - her career must be really going somewhere if she's able to draw such a crowd in such a short time.

 

Speaking of, Abigail's face labels a comment just below the poster image. He's been tagged in it.

 

 **_Abigail G Roberts_ ** _:_ **_John Marston_ ** _if u don't show i will egg ur truck w/ as many ppl as i can get together_

_I kno where u live_

 

John chucks his phone across his room and flops back down on the bed, digging his fingers into his hair.

There goes that pride.

 

He groans, giving himself a minute to think. He could go to the show. It'll probably be crowded, assuming even half of those numbers on Facebook actually go. Parking will probably be a hassle. He'll get to see Abigail perform and support her. He’ll get to meet this band mate of hers. Arthur.

She definitely won't let him dip out afterwards, so he'll have to talk about his stupid life choices and the whole lot of nothing he's done since she left for university.

Or…

He could _not_ go and maybe instead drive up into Oklahoma or even Kansas for a day or so until she calmed down and also, probably, didn't have a mob of people to egg his truck?

 

...Who is he kidding? There wouldn't be enough time in his life for Abigail to calm down if he ghosted on her.

“Damn it, Abigail.”

John rolls out of bed, grabbing some jeans and a long sleeve shirt from the clean-ish pile on the floor along with his phone. Heading into the bathroom, he sends Abigail a text.

 

**5:49am**

_Christ, woman, I'll be there! Wtf did my truck do to deserve that threat??_

 

**8:45am**

_Yaaaaasss my boiiiii ;)_

_Tlk 2 Bill 2 get in sug_

 

*****G H O S T S*****

 

After working all afternoon mucking out stables and moving horseshit from one pile to another, John's glad to be in the city proper, freshly showered, where nothing outwardly smells like manure. He liked working with horses but, coupled with the cold weather, it was exhausting. With the holiday season in full swing, he had to make sure the horses for drawn carriages were in peak condition every day before they were driven out into the city for the night. It was a lot of strain on the animals and he had to do everything he could to help them recover.

 

While he's free for the weekend, he’s not so glad to be circling the streets downtown trying to find a damn parking spot. Every possible space on the three surrounding blocks of The Whaler's is full up. John huffs, turning down yet another street. At this point, he probably would have been better off just walking to The Whaler’s from his apartment.

He drives slow, creeping along the brick-paved street until he spots a single parallel space between a poorly parked Honda and a Kia that's _just_ big enough for him to squeeze his truck in.

It'll be tight, though, that's for damn sure. Probably why it had been left open for him to find, too.

 

The space is definitely pushing even his limit of what constitutes being a jackass, but it doesn't take effort much to maneuver in. Just a lot of small back-and-forths and he's wedged in there good. There’s five, maybe six inches of space on either side when he gets out to check. He accepts the possibility of getting some minor scrapes to his bumpers.

He isn't terribly bothered by the idea, anyway. His truck is old enough to still made of steel, unlike the two newer cars surrounding his. He can probably just buff out whatever damage they leave, no problem.

It was a risk he was willing to take if it meant he didn’t have to keep searching for a damn parking spot.

 

The walk to the bar is cold and just on the wrong side of miserable. John turns the collar of his leather jacket up by his ears and shoves his hands deeper in his pants pockets. He takes the back alleys between the narrow stone buildings and old brick houses of old town Amarillo. These spaces were always disconcertingly quiet and empty to John, but they're always preferable to the downtown sidewalks this close to Christmas. He didn't hate crowds, but he definitely preferred to be separated from the saccharine holiday cheer that Texas was so good at.

 

Once he’s close enough to move back onto the sidewalks and the bar is in sight, John's stomach drops - there's a line out the door that wraps around the corner of the building.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses. A mother walking by with her children squawks in disapproval and John bows his head in apology - thankfully she doesn't catch him snickering while he’s at it.

He is definitely going to need a whiskey the minute he walks through those damn doors.

 

But… Abigail said to talk to Bill who, if he squints, is standing at the door checking tickets. It's hard to mistake him for anyone else, with his crazy lumberjack beard and one of his garish plaid shirts he's so damn fond of -- this time, a yellow, turquoise, and magenta affair.

John made the mistake once of teasing him about his clothes when he'd worked here as a bouncer over the summer about a year ago. Bill punched him and broke his nose and has been rather unforgiving towards him ever since. John’s nose never sat straight ever since, either.

But, that shouldn’t be an issue now, not when he's completely dependent on Bill to let him in to the show.

Totally. No problem.

Okay. Now, time to walk straight to the front of the line like an asshole.

 

John ignores the eyes on his back and waits as Bill takes the phone from a woman to slip into a security bag while handing her a number ticket in exchange. She walks inside and John walks up. He can hear grumbles from the line behind him. He sets his shoulders a little straighter as Bill stares him down.

“Bill.”

“Marston.”

John stands there for a moment, expecting Bill to continue.

He doesn't.

“Uh, Abigail told me to talk to you about getting in?”

Bill sighs and rolls his eyes, picking out a new security bag from the cardboard box beside him. He holds out his hand, managing to look inconvenienced even then.

“Gimme your phone. You'll get it back when the show's over.”

John slips his phone out from his back pocket and into Bill's palm - the older man lets it fall into the bag, zips it up, and flings it haphazardly into the bigger box beside him with the others. He hands John his ticket, stares for a moment before gesturing impatiently at the front doors.

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for, Marston?”

John throws his hands up in surrender and ducks inside, just glad to be done with the whole interaction and out of sight.

He had been expecting a lot worse, honestly.

 

Inside is already packed, the bar just left of the door fully lined with patrons. John wedges himself between two men that seem like they'd move if he made them. They do.

He notices Karen is bartending, blonde curly hair up and out of the way. She's fully decked out in a lacy corset top and studded leather skirt. She'd referred to it as her battle armor - she only wore it on busy nights - but really, it was just a way to get better tips.

 

“Tips for titties,” she'd told him, once.

 

Normally, that sort of thing would be cause for concern, but she didn't take shit from anybody. John only stopped worrying quite so much about her safety after he saw her beat the shit out of a bar patron when he made one too many unwanted sexual advances.

Not to say he didn't still keep an eye on her bar when he came in. He'd rather be safe than sorry. He liked her - Karen was funny with a refreshingly crude sense of humor. The two of them got along better than John would have ever thought. They were also, arguably, a horrible influence on the other.

 

She spots him in the crowd and her face lights up in a crooked smile.

“John Marston! You made it!”

“Did Abigail tell you I’d be here?” John asks as Karen hands a whiskey-coke to a woman not far down the bar.

“Pff, fuck no - I saw her threat to your truck on the event page. Figured you wouldn't be clever enough to avoid that unless you moved states,” Karen chuckles. John blanches, Karen's joke is terrifyingly close to his thoughts this morning.

Karen glances at him and laughs harder.

“Oh my god, _please_ don't tell me you actually considered that.”

She hands another patron a pint of something on draft with a smile.

“Karen, please. Give me whiskey. I need whatever you can spare to help me through tonight,” John begs. Karen sighs and pours him an over-sized tumbler with Johnnie Walker Black. John watches, wide-eyed as she fills it to the brim.

“That's your only freebie and only because I love you so much.”

John cradles the glass in both hands like it's gold and gives Karen grin, winking.

“Love you too, Karen.”

 

Making his way from the bar without spilling is difficult, but John manages to weave through the crowd without much lost spirit. There's a small 2-chair table near the division between the bar and stage areas that looks unclaimed. He shuffles over and puts his glass down, takes off his coat, and sits with a sigh.

His watch says 7:20, ten minutes to go without anything to do.

Can't even browse Facebook.

 

He looks around, scanning the crowd for any more familiar faces. Aside from Mr. Pearson helping his sound techs do a final arrangement of microphones and cords, he doesn't recognize anyone else in the bar. That's probably a good thing.

“Is that ol' Johnny boy I see?” a familiar Irish brogue calls out behind him. John winces.

Okay, nevermind then.

He glances behind him to confirm who he already knows it is.

Sean.

 

Sean, always a little disheveled in an over-sized tunic and harem pants, grins at him with two beers in hand. John knows better to assume one of those is for him.

“I should have known you’d be here tonight.”

“Yeah, well ye know me. Tips for titties an’ all that” He gestures grandly with a shimmy, somehow managing to keep every drop of his beer in both respective glasses. John snorts a rather unattractive laugh and motions at the empty seat across from him. Sean and Karen were in a constant state of on-and-off-again but it was almost a certainty that if she was working, the Irishman would show his face at some point in the night.

Sean all but collapses into the chair across the table and nods over to the stage.

“So this is _the_ Abigail, then?”

John nods and takes a sip of his whiskey, squinting up at the stage lights when they turn a deep red.

“Yeah, she's back in town for break, I guess.”

Sean hums, pushing his unruly copper hair out of his face, then downing half of his first pint in two gulps. A few moments pass by.

“Ye know anythin’ about this Arthur fella wit’ her?”

“Not at all. Though, she wanted me to meet him.”

“Oooh, now ye've got me _peaked_ ,” Sean grins, looking even more mischievous with his chipped front tooth. John frowns, gaze falling to the table, scratching at the scars along his cheek.

“I don't know what you're talkin’ about.”

“Oh, come on, Johnny. Ye don't think _anythin_ ’ of yer girl introducin’ ye to a _new_ man?” Sean ducks his head down to catch John’s eyes. John frowns harder.

“Abigail ain't my ‘girl’, Sean. Not for a long while, now. She can do whatever it is she wants. Always has.”

 

Sean, again, just hums in mock-thought, finishes off his beer, and slides the empty glass off to the side. The house lights start to go down and stage lights up. The crowd around them start to cheer and John quickly falls into clapping along, glad for the forced end to their conversation.

That was exactly the reason he didn't want to be here.

His and Abigail’s past was going to get dug up and baseless rumors were going to spread around like goddamn wildfire.

Still, Sean’s question resonates with a small pit of doubt in his chest. Abigail had texted him about practically every other date and hookup she'd had since going away to school - not that he'd ever asked or wanted to know. Her message this morning was the first time she'd ever mentioned Arthur.

She would have told him already if they were involved.

Right?

 

The opener walks on stage - he's introduced as Javier and he's flirty, handsome, and confident. He's a damn good guitar player, too. John recognizes some of the pieces he plays as covers, some classic Spanish guitar standards he knows Hosea has on vinyl, but really enjoys his original songs.

He's got great technique and a steady rhythm - just, the really warm, full sound he's getting from his acoustic is great.

John makes a note to look him up when he gets his phone back.

 

When Javier finishes his set and leaves the stage with a flourished bow, John's stomach starts to twist into complex knots. He's nervous, suddenly confronted with the reality of his choices.

Abigail chose to pursue music, John didn't.

Abigail is playing to crowds like this, with openers like Javier, and John is lugging around bales of hay and bags horse feed all day.

 

Abigail is going to want to hear about his time while they've been apart and John's done fuck all with it.

 

“ _Folks, please welcome to the stage... 'Whiskey & Wine’_!” Mr. Pearson's raspy voice interrupts John from his thoughts and the applause that erupts goes ear-ringing loud. John mechanically claps along and watches as his best friend walks on stage.

Abigail is as beautiful as ever, all clean colors in contrast with her dark hair, fair skin, and bright blue eyes. She's dressed cute with a flattering navy dress and brown cowboy boots. She's got her mandolin in hand and beams down at the crowd with an easy glow. She props her instrument on a stand beside the mic and waves.

John knows she's spotted him when her wave gets a little too enthusiastic, smile turns manic, and she gestures dramatically towards the man walking into the stage lights behind her.

John covers his mouth to make sure his jaw hasn't dropped because he's gone numb and breathless.

 

The man, Arthur, is gorgeous - tall, wide shouldered, bulky in the just right way, rugged. He smiles gently, pale blue-green eyes shining in the stage lights as he saunters up beside Abigail. He's casual, wearing a plain black button down with the sleeves rolled up and a matching black bandana tied loose around his neck, his long legs in dark beige pants with well-worn riding boots. He takes a hand away from his guitar to comb his trimmed sandy brown hair up and to the side in one smooth motion. Familiar, comfortable.

John is overwhelmed -- something inside is urging him to run.

If that’s away or towards the man, he doesn’t know.

But, he does understand why Abigail was so keen on them meeting, now.

 

He sees Sean dramatically turn towards him in his peripheral but he can't take his eyes away from the man on stage.

“Oh hooo, Johnnyyy,” he drawls, teasing. John can feel his face go red and he kicks at Sean's shin under the table with unconvincingly little force.

“S-shut up!” his voice cracks. Sean cackles.

 

A third man walks out behind Abigail and Arthur and to the back of the stage: tall, dark, and huge in every sense.  He’s got a darker complexion with high and wide cheekbones framed by long black hair that’s mostly pulled into a low ponytail. He seems dressed to blend in with the muted velvet backdrops on stage with his dark jean shirt with black pants. He doesn’t smile out at the crowd when he gets settled at the drum set - which he manages to make look like it was built for a child - but he still comes across as content. Happy. Handsome in that passive, calming way.

John is thankful, if only to have another person to focus on between Arthur and Abigail. Watching them for too long was like staring at the Sun. It hurt. For very different reasons, but it hurt.

The drummer twirls his drumsticks between his fingers, effortlessly.

 

“Thank you so much for comin’ to see us tonight, y'all. It means so much to me to be able to perform here in my hometown,” Abigail leans into the mic while she speaks, stealing the attention of everyone in the bar in an instance. She grins and pushes a strand of hair back around her ear when the crowd cheers - a few shouts of “Amarillo!” peak in the noise.

“I'm Abigail, this fine gentleman next to me is Arthur, and darlin’ Charles is our phenomenal drummer backin’ us. We're excited to play, so we'll get right into a piece called 'Dearly Departed’. I hope y'all enjoy.”

 

The crowd goes silent and John's heart is caught in his throat. Arthur starts a rhythm of muted, percussive strumming backed by Charles on the drum set, and Abigail claps at the end of the beat in time with both of them. The crowd seems to immediately follow in with Abigail's lead.

Then, the melody.

 

Arthur and Abigail croon together and Arthur picks an intricate melody between chords. John's heart leaps at the smiles the two fall into as they sing.

 

_Well, you and I both know that the house is haunted_

_And you and I both know that the ghost is me_

_You used to catch me in your bed-sheets just a-rattling your chains_

_Well back then baby, it didn’t seem so strange_

 

John's familiar with Abigail's voice, clear and true like a bell. He grew up listening to her belt out any song she could, he could pick her out from a choir any time. But Arthur? He's gruff and gravelly in the best ways beside her. The way his voice resonates and rumbles steals John's breath like a vacuum. They aren't so much a clash of opposites but they blend into something greater that sets his heart on fire.

 

The crowd is singing and clapping along enthusiastically to every line, filling the bar with a cacophony of sound. Arthur and Abigail are stomping along with the beat, belting out into the microphone between them while Charles beats away at the drums behind him until suddenly it's over and they croon out one more repeat of wordless-vocals in silence.

The house goes crazy with applause, John watching the two bow and laugh at the response, rapt. Something ugly twists pitch black inside him.

This is what he wanted.

This is _exactly_ what he wanted to do.

 

John tries his best to ignore the jealousy that thrashes in his heart as Abigail plays through the rest of her set, showing off her nimble fingered mandolin talent. He tries to focus on his friend and her joy, on Arthur and his soul-crushing smiles. He watches Charles for most of the songs, being the least painful option and legitimately entertaining. Charles doesn’t even break a sweat for the entirety of the set, just beats away in the back without a care in the world. John doesn’t know too much about drums, outside of ‘hit it make noise’, but Charles makes it look effortless even when his arms are a blur of movement.

John loses track of how many songs they play, but he knows they’re all amazing and his heart twists a little more painfully each time Arthur smiles out at the crowd. As they’re taking their final bow to thunderous applause, Abigail suddenly grabs the mic and points at him in the crowd.

 

“JOHN MARSTON, YOU BETTER COME BACKSTAGE WITH ME,” she’s shouting, which is completely unnecessary with the microphone, and John tries to shrink in his chair as every pair of eyes in the house turn to him. Sean howls in laughter and throws a thumbs up in the air and John hides his face when he hears Arthur’s low chuckles seep through the speakers between the raucous shouts around him.

“God _damn_ you, Abigail,” John whines into his palms. Sean wolf whistles and hollers,

“I'LL DRAG HIM MESELF!”

 

There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world that could help him, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the song that Arthur and Abigail sing is by an artist called Shakey Graves and Esme Patterson. The album recording is great, but the energy the two have in their live performances is just so g o d d a m n adorable. 
> 
> This one is my personal favourite:  
> [Dearly Departed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqnrq2JL7lM)


	2. Wolf in the Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whiskey drunk  
> don't trip  
> don't fall  
> the wolf is there  
> waiting  
> behind you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the comments and kudos (and bookmarks) y'all left on the first chapter made me so happy! Thank you for being so patient~

Sean worms the both of them between people in the dense crowd as they head towards the door to the backstage. He’s talking the whole time and every single word is thoroughly ignored by John. He had downed the rest of his whiskey in a single, almost-too-big, gulp and now his chest burned with false bravado and vapors - coupled with Sean’s actual confidence, he could almost believe in himself.

He could do this.

He could do without everyone staring, though. It seems like everyone they pass by turns to look at him, open-mouthed and dumbfounded, like he was in some kind of goddamn funeral procession. Everybody has to watch the casket as it’s carried by.

 

Sean is shaking his shoulder in excitement, pushing him through the stage door and the low roar of voices and house music switches off like a light behind them  - John blinks and looks over at him once he realizes Sean is waiting for a response.

“What?”

Sean's face drops down dull for a moment - a brief _‘are you fucking kidding me_ ’ sigh - before popping right back to his usual animated expression, undeterred.

“I was jus’ sayin’ that this Arthur fella is a nice piece of work, ain't he?”

John chokes on spit, coughs, “Shut up, Sean. My _god_.”

“I'd let him 'ave a go at me any day, if ye know what I mean,” Sean elbows him in the shoulder, voice dropping low in his jest. John slaps him on the back of the head as his face goes hot. Sean only laughs and sways his walk just a little out of John’s immediate reach.

“Since when have you been interested in men?” John asks. “What about Karen?”

Sean scoffs, “I ain't, but that wouldn't stop me in this case. It's once in a lifetime, that kinda man. ’Sides, Karen would understand - maybe even want in. I’d share.”

“You're horrible.”

“Ah, yer only mad ‘cause ye wanna jump his bones too, Johnny boy.”

“I-I ain't thinkin’ that,” John stutters and Sean looks at him with something akin to pity and disbelief. “I ain't!”

“Oh, sure ye ain't.”

John scowls with a huff, biting his tongue. Anything he says now, Sean will just find some way to turn back around on him. He doesn’t want to look any more like a fool.

Sure, Arthur was attractive. Did that mean John was interested? Maybe, in a confusing sort of way that John wasn’t really able to explain, not even to himself.

Was he going to act on that desire?

_Hell no_.

He’d never actually pursued men before, ignoring the odd drunken kiss when he was in high school before he and Abigail were a thing. While he had enjoyed himself, he always felt awkward - it was just... easier to only be romantic with women.

So, he ignored his feelings and moved on. A healthy human being, living the dream in 2018.

 

John sighs and tries to focus more on his surroundings. The backstage of Pearson's is and always has been a disorienting circuit of dark surfaces and heavy velvet curtains. With every surface - floor to ceiling - painted black, it felt like they were stuck in limbo.

Walking forever in a dimly lit loop of hallway.

Realistically, he knows they haven’t gone far, they haven’t been walking long - the backstage really isn’t that large of a space, the building is finite, but John remembers. This is a feeling that has lingered, left over from the concerts he'd worked months ago.

 

He scuffs his boots on the floor and the hallway stretches ahead of him. His chest warms, burning hot from the whiskey like a pot slowly coming to a boil. It doesn't feel like his limbs are all there - spectral, with a strange kind of localized disassociation.

 

Even with his watch showing only a minute gone, a small anxious part of John is starting to consider that the whole night might actually just be an elaborate hallucination. Maybe he is just asleep at home, passed out on the couch after work. He’ll wake up when the sun shines through his kitchen window and send Abigail a half-hearted apology text that she’ll surely hate him for - maybe she’d forgive him.

But, maybe she’d stop trying to see him altogether.

 

Before his imagination can further run wild, John hears a familiar burst of laughter and a few different voices close by. Rounding a corner, a curtain a little ways ahead of them is tied open and a bright light from beyond pours out into the hall. A waypoint - a beacon.

He sighs.

Reality settles again, steady.

 

Sean excitedly skips ahead, bouncing on his soles down the hall, and jumps into the light. He presents himself as if the door was a spotlight; showy, complete with jazz hands and an impressive high kick.

Like, really impressive.

“ABI!” he shouts, sounding awfully friendly for never having met.

“You!...aren't John.”

“Nope,” Sean pops and does a shallow little bow with a flourish. “Me name's Sean.”

 

John watches as Sean saunters into the side room with little care of invitation but hesitates before he follows in through the doorway. The seam of light is just beyond the toes of his boots, like some shitty metaphor. Should he step into the light?

_Should he stay in the darkness?_

John snorts to himself and runs a hand through his limp hair, trying to calm his heart. He feels ugly, now that he’s hyper-focused. He could have worn something nicer than his Longhorns raglan and old wear-torn jeans. He looks like a college drop-out, an accomplishment with never having formally gone in the first place - it’s not a good look, not for reunions and not for meeting new - _handsome_ \- folks.

He hated that he always managed to look dirty, his hair greasy, even within hours after washing. One of these days, he was just going shave his head - fuck it all. Or maybe he should just keep it up like he does at the stables?

John pats his pockets for a hair tie but comes up empty.

Damn.

He should really just go home while he’s still got the chance.

Just turn around and walk back to his car.

 

“Oh, Johnny boy! The pipes are callin’ so stop hidin’ an’ get yer arse in here!” Sean calls out sing-song and lightly mocking, snapping John out of his introspection. He stomps into the room, thoughts of flight thrown to the wind, directing a deep scowl at the Irishman when he sees him looking rather comfortable, splayed across a ratty old plaid couch in the far corner. Charles is nearby, quietly putting cymbals into black padded bags.

“I wasn't hidin’, you ran ahead!” He shouts back, voice _much_ louder than he'd wanted. He yells when he's nervous.

_Stupid_.

 

“Oh, John - you're here!” Abigail bursts out from behind a far curtain to the stage, haphazardly throwing her armful of cords onto Sean. She practically tackles John with a hug and he thankfully manages to direct her momentum to spin around with the woman. She hums little giggles in his ear with her face tucked into his neck.

When her feet touch the ground again, Abigail grabs John's cheeks in her hands and squishes his face together, laughing brightly. He joins in with his own raspy chuckle and gently rests his hands on her hips.

Like nothing had changed, she was still damn beautiful.

“I missed you so much, sug,” Abigail hums, pressing a kiss to his nose and surely leaving behind a print of wine-red lipstick. John further scrunches his face, squinting.

“Missed you too, Abigail.” His voice is too soft, too telling, within the company of strangers.

 

“Oh, so _he_ can call you Abigail but _I_ still gotta use Abi?” A gruff voice complains somewhere to John’s left. Abigail releases John’s face and whips around in a flash, pointing her finger threateningly at the source.

Arthur.

John's heart skips a beat, painful in his chest.

How had he not noticed him?

 

“ _You_ can't call me that because _you_ ain't John,” Abigail reprimands. Arthur seems unfazed by her intensity. Rather, he seems awfully amused by it. He's sitting on top of a long speaker block, head propped in one hand and slouched to rest his elbows on his knees - the very face of unthreatened. He smooths down the shape of his mustache with his free hand and the grin that pulls at his lips immediately after is mischievous and just _devastating_.

“Oh, I know this one’s _special_ , darlin’,” he drawls, giving John a pointed look for emphasis that makes him instinctively suck in a breath. Something in Arthur’s expression goes sharp, the grin takes an ominous turn. Wolfish.

 

Abigail sighs and turns back to John, giving him an apologetic grimace. She holds one of his hands tightly in hers and purposefully gestures away and over to Charles on the other side of the room.

“Hey!” Arthur exclaims, indignant.

Abigail’s grimace morphs into a bright smile.

“Here, John, let me introduce you. That over there is Charles Smith, our drummer extraordinaire and giant teddy bear.”

Charles looks up from his work in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting being involved in the conversation at all, giving John a small wave and a barely-there smile. Really more like a twitch of the lip.

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” His voice is low and calm, soothing. John nods in return, feels comfortable.

“Hey.”

 

Abigail turns John back to Arthur, who looks a little annoyed, and points.

“That’s Arthur Morgan, our guitarist and brooding man of mystery.”

“ _Jus’_ yer guitarist?” Sean pipes up from the corner. John glances over at him, squinting in confusion, and Sean just wiggles his eyebrows, subtlety out the window. Abigail sighs, posture sagging enough that John has to wonder how many times she’s been asked that question.

“Yes, _just_. Always just.”

 

Sean's brow wiggling intensifies with her answer, in addition to him starting an awkward shimmying dance on the couch. It was so embarrassing that even Charles stops packing up his drums to watch. John, cheeks going vicariously red, wishes he had something to throw at the Irishman.

Something heavy.

 

Abigail hums in thought, steps behind John, and gives him a shove in Arthur's direction. John stumbles, practically falling into the man but he manages to catch himself at the last moment with an awkward wide-legged stance, like a newborn colt taking its first steps.

“Arthur, _darlin’_ ,” Abigail mocks. “This is my best friend John Marston.”

Arthur doesn’t lift his head from his hand but looks up at John through surprisingly dark lashes that make his pale eyes cutting - edged, like glass. He smiles that dangerous smile that makes John's stomach twist into complicated knots. He's about to take a step back when Arthur finally stands, suddenly _very_ close and just barely taller than John. He has to shift his gaze to meet his eyes.

Damn, he’s really handsome.

John swallows.

 

“Well it's mighty nice to meet ya’, _John_ ,” he murmurs, low, drawing out the syllable of John’s name into a pleasant rumble of sound. It makes John’s blink turn into a flutter, half-lidded for a breath that catches in his chest.

“L-likewise,” John stutters, throat gone dry enough to make his voice crack to a sudden falsetto. He slaps a hand over his mouth in shock while he watches the energy build up in the other man’s expression before it overflows.

Arthur cackles and turns away, heaving in a wild peal of wheezing, gravely laughter. John's face burns with embarrassment, he looks over at the door with renewed interest.

He could just run.

Ride the 87 up and over the Oklahoma border. Never come back.

 

Arthur's amusement hasn't subsided yet, the man clutching at his knees and doubled over from the effort.

He should change his name too.

Jim Milton sounds good.

 

“Y-you even _old_ enough to drink, boy?” Arthur spits out between laughs, wiping at damp eyes with the back of his hand. His face is red from the strain but he still looks attractive. Bright from his joy, like wheat swaying in high summer sun. 

John wants to punch him right in the nose.

He could do it, easy. Would probably feel great.

Then, he could run.

 

He's not sure if Arthur notices something in his face change, but the older man takes a step back.

Just out of arm’s reach.

 

“Arthur Morgan, you be kind!” Abigail shouts. “John is my longest friend and I won't have you scarin’ him off!”

Arthur's attention switches from John to Abigail, his expression immediately losing some of its energy. He sucks in a deep breath, effectively ending his laughter but for a few stray chuckles that pull hurt into Arthur’s face as they trail off.

John takes more enjoyment than he probably should in how put out Arthur looks.

Almost as much if he could have hit him.

 

“I was only teasin’ him, Abi.”

“No. You were _only_ gonna embarrass him into never wantin’ to see us again.” Abigail corrects, acutely aware of John's flight risk. “I already don't get to see John as much as I'd like. Don't need _you_ messin’ everything up before you've even had a chance to know each other.”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, huffing, and John briefly - _briefly_ \- follows the flex of his muscles before sharply elbowing him in the gut.

“Hey!” Arthur objects and jerks away while John nods to himself.

He does feel better.

“ _Jesus_ , I'm sorry,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “I wasn't tryin’ to be mean.”

“Thank you, you oversized children,” Abigail sighs, skipping over to punch both of them in the arm. Arthur doesn't flinch this time.

John watches the way Arthur’s chest swells as he takes a deep breath.

_Not subtle_.

 

“Well!” Abigail claps and turns back to Sean and Charles. “Now that Arthur will behave himself for the next hour, how about we go get some food? I'm _starvin_ ’,” she whines, throwing her head back in exhaustion.

“Can't. I'm hanging out with my cousin,” Charles says, barely louder than a murmur, loading the first of his drum bags onto a wheeled cart. Arthur immediately hops over to help him, moving a high stack of drums with ease.

“Lenny, right?” he asks and Charles gives him a small nod.

Sean shoots up from the couch, excited, looking at Charles over the back in a way that makes the other man stare wide-eyed.

 

“Lenny is yer cousin? He an’ I go _way_ back - a right pair of thieves! How's that little troublemaker doin’?”

“He's… never mentioned you before. I'm pretty sure we're not talking about the same person,” Charles says slowly, raising an eyebrow. John knows who Sean is talking about, but it seems impossible that they're one and the same - Lenny isn't exactly a rare name in Texas.

“Leonard Summers, innit?” Sean clarifies. Arthur barks out a sharp laugh.

“Oh. Uh. Yeah,” Charles frowns with his surprise.

Guess anything is possible.

Sean clutches at his chest dramatically, swooning back across the couch cushions.

“Lenny! This betrayal will _not_ be forgotten’!” he cries. Charles watches him for another moment, unamused - or maybe just confused - before turning his attention back to Arthur and Abigail. John by proxy.

 

“Promised him we'd do something tonight, but I can join after the show tomorrow,” he continues on, disregarding the whole of Sean's interruption, while checking over the stability of the stack of drums.

“Aw, okay,” Abigail pouts, turning back to John. “Sug?”

She looks so earnest. How can he say no?

What was even the nicest way to say no?

_Sorry, going through a personal crisis, need some space to freak._

 

“John an’ me would be _honored_ , Miss Roberts” Sean answers, back to his carefree self and rolling off the couch, bouncing to his feet before John can even think of a response. Sean gives him a pointed look - a shrug, an ' _I dare you to bail, now'_   grin.

There goes his idea.

 

Abigail chuckles, giving the Irishman a broad smile and a wink.

She knew.

“I was hopin’ _you'd_ say that, sug.”

“I don't think I trust the two of you in a room together,” John mutters and Arthur hums along in agreement. Abigail makes a face at the two of them and grabs her bag and coat from the small round table by the couch. She swings her pea coat on with a flourish, spinning with the motion of the fabric at her waist.

“Well, come on then. Let's get everythin’ in the van so we can _go_. I want burgers!” she shouts.

 

Abigail is out the door with her mandolin case without any further pause and when John turns back to the room, Arthur is right there in front of him, arms loaded with canvas bags full of pedals and smaller soundboards. He pushes them into John expectantly, not even giving him a moment to grab the straps. John clutches everything to his chest in a panic, frantically trying getting a grip on the bags before he ends up dropping them all. The older man snorts and goes to gather more things, leaving John to scowl at his back and follow after Abigail, down the hall to the back alley.

He ignores how the closeness of Arthur made his heart clench tight in his chest while Sean retreats with him, empty handed, like a stray dog looking for scraps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh, I'm so sorry it took me so long to update this story.  
> Life got crazy (still is) but I never stopped working on this. Editing it and really sitting down to work bits out wasn't something I had time for.  
> I've got the next 7,000+ words written and mostly edited, so the next chapter will be like, 3x as long. Gonna try to have it posted sometime this weekend or early this coming week, if all goes as planned. 
> 
> But don't worry! I'm going to finish this story, no matter how long it takes. Like, unless I fuckin' die or someshit, I'll be writing aaand then eventually posting here, lol. 
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr if ya want:  
> [Berwyn Rose!](https://berwynrose.tumblr.com/)


	3. 13 Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Way down yonder  
> In the meadow  
> Poor little baby crying momma  
> Birds and the butterflies  
> Flutter 'round his eyes  
> Poor little baby crying momma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an almost 8,000 word update for y'all, lol.  
> I'M SORRY I TAKE SO LONG TO POST. ;-;
> 
>    
>  [All The Pretty Little Horses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWoPsyY8CZY)

Trying to agree on a restaurant that was still open this late on a Friday takes longer than it probably should. Crowding around and scrolling through a list on Abigail’s phone, every suggestion gets shot down.

Too expensive, closes soon, weak cocktails, shit food, “ _They don't serve burgers!”_.

Finally, John offers up the recently built Whataburger that’s a little over a block away from Pearson's. Abigail lights up like a Christmas tree.

Whataburger it is.

 

With Charles taking the van to his cousin's and John's truck being uselessly parked farther away in the opposite direction, the four of them opt to hoof it in the cold.

Sean fills the otherwise silent night with comfortable chatter, jumping from topic to topic and going nowhere fast. Currently, he's mid-story about once having convinced a burglar to give him _his_ money instead. Arthur quips back at him in faux agitation, _like that ever happened_ , like Sean was just a pesky younger brother.

Arthur shoves Sean into a parking meter.

Sean shoulder-checks Arthur into a street light.

The light pole shakes, creaks under the force. It rattles. They laugh.

The wind picks up a bit and blows a cold gust of air through the alley they pass by.

 

Now, John knows Texas winters are comparably nothing to the season in most of the other states, but knowing that fact didn't make the weather feel any _less_ cold to him. John hated winter - he absolutely despised being cold. He had shit circulation and lost body heat fast, but, primarily, he hated winter because the cold air made the scars ache and pull on his face.

 

People liked to stare and grimace when they saw him - the scars were a jagged statement of brutality and one that was almost impossible to ignore. Even if someone was looking at him with sympathy - coupled with an _“Oh, you poor thing!”_ \- after so long, those grimaces started to feel more personal. He'd never considered himself very attractive before he’d got the scars, so John was pretty sure you could just call him downright ugly, now.

He certainly never _felt_ handsome - nothing special, at best.

 

“John, you're awful quiet,” Abigail murmurs softly, shaking John out of his running thoughts. He brings his gaze from his boots and up to her, bright blue eyes watching him with a knowing concern. Abigail knew his low-frequency buzz of anxiety better than anyone else in the world - knew the fight-or-flight dial that slowly ticked upwards the longer he stayed silent in public.

He gives her a withered smile.

 

“So, how's my baby Jack doin’?” she asks, slipping her gloved hand into the space between John's arm and chest, tucking into his side and falling in step. They used to walk together like this when they were younger, but it always made him feel old - out of time.

Still does.

John ignores the feeling and glances up at the darkened sky. He hums; it’s too cloudy to see any stars tonight.

“Jack's fine. He’s really into cowboys, lately.”

“Aw, he wants to be just like his big brother, don't he?” Abigail coos, grinning wildly. John puffs out a sharp laugh and brushes some of his hair away from his eyes.

“I'd rather he didn't, you know that. I'm hopin’ he grows out of it.”

“ _You_ a cowboy?” Arthur asks from the other side of Abigail, his expression a mix of surprise and disbelief. John snorts.

He doesn't really look the part, does he?

“Stable manager, Abigail calls that a cowboy,” John bumps hips with her, playful.

“I think it should count, nowadays. He can ride a horse better than anyone I know,” Abigail sniffs and turns her nose up, defiant.

“You don't know a whole lot of riders, woman,” John laughs. “Ain’t like I’ve got stiff competition.”

Arthur scoffs and ruffles Abigail's carefully coiffed hair, making her shriek and duck away into John’s side.

“Abi, that don't count. ‘Specially considering you know an _actual_ cowboy.”

“Oh, don't tell me yer a fuckin’ cowboy on top everythin’ else, Arthur,” Sean pipes up, suddenly looking rather exhausted. Arthur laughs, rough and warm, and shakes his head, veering off and away from the group as they reach the property line of the restaurant clearing.

He hops over a yellow painted bumper block and walks across the small parking lot of the Whataburger. The rest of them follow close behind and John's still expecting Arthur to say something - anything - but he just moves to the restaurant doors, pulling them open and releasing a rush of warm air into the night.

Arthur holds them open for everyone, as well as an older couple leaving, before he follows inside.

 

Standing in front of the counter, they all sigh collectively in the heat, shoulders rising and falling in time together. Abigail gives John a sidelong grin at their synchronicity before turning to elbow Sean in the gut. He yelps and cowers while Abigail takes the moment to cut in front of him - she slides up to the register without any shame. John takes a step away and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Was that really necessary, Abigail?”

Abigail shrugs.

 

Arthur moves over beside John and they watch as Abigail and Sean take swings at each other between responses to the cashier. The woman at the register doesn’t seem to care much, she just punches in the order and hands them two soda cups. Abigail turns over her debit card while Sean waltzes over to the soda fountain, unconcerned.

 

“Did he just-?” Arthur mutters under his breath, making John shift to look up at him. He chuckles when he notices Arthur’s furrowed brow. He knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Sean’s just good at gettin’ free shit.”

 

Arthur hums softly in understanding. Crossing his arms again, the leather of his jacket rustles softly as it bends and folds. John finds himself focusing on Arthur’s hand - his fingers, particularly - watching as they dig into the arm closest to him, just above the elbow. There are scars, pale tendrils like the great roots of an old tree, spreading down each finger from knuckle to knuckle.

John tries to imagine how he'd gotten them. They were layered, multiple injuries over time. Repetitive.

Deep.

Some tendrils were feathered like fire, where others clean and straight like the skin had split across bone. Like stories had been written into his skin in crooked print and John wishes he understood the language well enough to read.

 

Arthur catches John’s attention, expression curious but briefly lived. He jerks his chin towards the now open register.

“You go first,” he says.

John nods and looks away, a little embarrassed at his obvious staring. He steps up to the counter, but Arthur is following distractingly close behind. A late-day shadow, stretched large from the low hanging sun.

 

He swallows and looks at the menu, nerves spiking.

There are a lot of choices - have there always been this many?

When was the last time he even ate at this place?

Since when did they do hash brown burgers?

Arthur shuffles behind him and murmurs along to the odd Marty Robbins song that's playing over the restaurant speakers - _something is dreadfully wrong, for I feel a deep burning pain in my side_ \- ah, number four… no, ten. Three?

The other man sighs and John turns to look at him but the woman at the register is asking him what kind of sauce he wants.

Sauce?

What?

The woman sighs, exasperated: cream gravy, honey BBQ, honey mustard, creamy pepper, ranch -

What the hell is creamy pepper?  

Arthur coughs into his elbow, John’s attention is split between things - there’s a question somewhere, he says large.

_Arthur is large._

Wait, _shit._

The woman at the register is reading off his total and handing him a huge styrofoam cup. John has no idea what he’s ordered, but he digs out a crumpled ten dollar bill from his pocket and mutters an apology under his breath to the cashier.

What's he even apologizing for?

He’s such a fucking mess.

 

He wishes they were closer to the highway. He’d love to run out into open traffic.

 

Once the woman hands him his change and ticket, John drags himself over to the soda fountain and fills his comically large cup to the top with ice - some of it tumbles out onto the floor.

He jabs at the cherry coke button and waits as it fills. It feels like forever, but eventually he’s able to jam on a lid and straw and shuffle over to the table Abigail and Sean have already claimed. He throws himself into the booth next to Sean and lets his head fall onto the table with a groan.

 

“Oh, John, what did you do?” Abigail asks - he doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s got some stupid shit-eating grin. She doesn't even sound concerned. More like she's just barely holding in her laughter.

John groans, “I don’t know what I ordered but I got a large drink.”

“That’s at least a litre of soda,” Sean comments in an odd mixture of awe and disgust.

“I know!” John whines into the tabletop. Sean just laughs and someone starts to pat the top of John’s head in sympathy. He swats away the hand with a blind swipe - Abigail yelps.

Serves her right.

 

“You _thirsty_ , Marston?”

 _Arthur_.

 

John jolts upright, flinching as he bangs his knees on the underside of the table in the process. Arthur is standing beside him, hip popped to the side and looking pretty amused. It takes John a minute, face red-hot and sputtering, to give Arthur an answer.

He isn’t- he’s thirsty?

There’s no fucking way that wasn’t intentional - John’s heart trips over a beat in nerves.

 

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY LARGE,” he shouts, then immediately covers his face with his hands, pressing at his eyes. Why couldn’t he just act normal around Arthur?

 

John listens to Arthur laugh and take a sip from his own more reasonably sized drink. Abigail kicks John’s foot under the table - just enough to grab his attention without being obvious. She raises both eyebrows at him, barely, but he sees it.

_Flirt much?_

If he could, he would just combust.

Fuck it all and burn to a crisp.

 

“Number 925! Nine-two-five!” the cashier shouts. Sean whoops and pushes at John’s shoulder, unceremoniously shoving him up and out of the booth. He stands awkwardly beside Arthur as Sean leaps to the counter. He can see Arthur turn his head towards him in his peripheral, like he was ready to say something though John didn’t _want_ to know what.

He pointedly stares down at the floor, ignoring the other man as best as he can. It's more difficult than it rightfully should be.

 

“Number 926!” The cashier again. John can’t help his sigh of relief as his order is called. Anything to get a little distance from Arthur - to breathe.

To shake that uncanny feeling when the other man is too close.

 

Dodging around Sean on his way back, John finally sees what he ordered.

Chicken tenders and toast, which look rather pitiful next to the absolute mountain of french fries on the tray. He looks at the menu. Tenders were number thirteen.

Ten. Three.

 _Jesus Christ_.

 

John mumbles a thanks the woman at the counter and takes his food back to the table, again avoiding Arthur’s gaze when he hears the man snort. Abigail looks at his pile of fries with wide eyes as he places the tray down.

“Please help me eat these,” John begs quietly. Sean grabs a handful without hesitation.

“Pretty sure we were in junior high last time I saw you eat chicken tenders willingly, sug,” Abigail grins around her hand as she chews a mouthful of her sandwich. John frisbees a slice of his toast at her, bouncing it off her shoulder and onto the table. Arthur grunts in mild agitation and grabs it, shoving the toast in his mouth in one bite. John makes a face before he can help it and Abigail cackles.

“Arthur, please. _Try_ to eat like a civilized person,” she asks, still laughing. Arthur doesn’t respond, but takes another pull of his soda and looks back to the front counter. His order still hasn’t been called yet. John offers Arthur his other piece of toast.

He wasn’t going to be able to eat it with everything else, anyway.

 

The older man hums in what John is going to imagine as thanks. He eats half of the slice at once, chews twice, then pops the rest in. Abigail gives him an approving, and very exaggerated, thumbs up.

It's definitely how she used to treat Jack when he was real young.

Arthur licks his fingers in response.

“Aw, an’ you were doin’ so well,” she sighs, dramatic.

 

“Nine-two-seven!”

Arthur puts his drink down on the table and walks away.

Abigail watches him through the small gap in the privacy wall around the booth.

 

“John, you need to get together with Arthur or _so help me_ I will murder you myself,” Abigail demands, hushed, the second Arthur is out of immediate earshot. She clicks her teeth as she bites into a french fry in some sort of threat. John tries not to choke on his own mouthful of food.

“W-what?”

“I know a few good places t’hide a body,” Sean adds softly, nodding along like what they were talking about wasn't absolutely _batshit insane_.

John shakes his head, disbelieving. There couldn’t be anything more concerning than Abigail _and_ Sean plotting his life together.

“I... don't think he's interested, Abigail. ‘Sides, even if _I_ _were_ interested, pretty sure I’ve done a good job fuckin’ everythin’ up tonight, with how much he’s laughed at me,” John mumbles, crossing his arms defensively.

“Oh, hush. He doesn’t mean any harm, trust me. You're totally his type - goofy nerves and all - and I've been hypin’ you up since he agreed to come to town with me for break. Been your wingman on this for months, already.” Abigail waves dismissively at him. John furrows his brow.

“How the hell do you even hype someone like me? Scrawny scar-faced idiot who yells too much? Frequently makes a fool of himself? _Real laugh_ in social situations.”

“The two of ya are more similar than you’d think, John. You’re a good man, if a little rough around the edges. Just trust me, I think Arthur might be perfect for you.” She squeezes his hand for comfort, then, her face goes impish.

“‘Sides, I've seen Arthur naked before and he's **_hung_** ,” Abigail gestures with her hands for emphasis - with the size she implies, he wants to believe she’s exaggerating. Still, his brain conjures up a _very_ naked Arthur and he can feel his cheeks warm again. Feeling lightheaded, John chews on the straw of his coke.

 _Embarrassing_.

“I don't care about that,” John mumbles - he doesn't sound as convincing as he hoped. Abigail shrugs, back to her point. “Yeah, well I figured the dick is just icing on the cake.”

“If icing was a fat cock up the arse,” Sean snorts, dutifully ignoring John suddenly, and very legitimately, choking on an ill-timed gasp full of soda. His chest burns from the carbonation. Abigail just laughs,

“Why not? I accidentally walked in on him changin’ in a hotel room in Dallas and got an eyeful. If I were interested and available, I woulda been sold on the spot.”

John gasps for breath between coughs while Abigail and Sean laugh, dizzy from the blood rushing to his face. He feels a firm hand rest on his back between his shoulder blades, patting gently.

Warmer than expected.

 

“So, we're _not_ concerned about this?” Arthur asks, tone rumbling low and rough. John can feel the vibrations of his voice through Arthur's hand between each rattling breath of soda-free air he desperately sucks in.

“Naw, look at ‘im, he's _fine_!” Sean puts a tilted emphasizes on 'fine’ - John guesses he’s wiggling his eyebrows in some suggestive way. Arthur's hand falls away and he laughs, but he doesn't move to sit down yet. John glances up at him with teary eyes. Arthur, holding a tray with a literal pyramid of burgers, meets his gaze for a moment and winks, effectively triggering another spasm of coughs. Arthur’s grin falls in concern.

“ _Breathe_ , boy. It ain't that hard.”

“But some things _could_ be hard,” Sean snorts again, always ready to throw fuel on the fire.

“HA!” Abigail bursts like a gunshot. John gives her the dirtiest look he can manage while he's still struggling to breathe.

Giggling, she starts to scoot out of the booth to let Arthur sit, but the man is already stepping on and over the table behind them to slide heavily into the inside seat without dropping a thing. He blocks the slap Abigail’s already got aimed at his head as one of his boots knocks into John’s foot under the table.

Arthur was surprisingly more graceful and coordinated than he had expected.

“Behave!” Abigail demands. John kicks him in the shin now that he’s finally got his breath back. Arthur grunts and ignores them, unwrapping his first sandwich.

John isn't sure what else to do. He feels aimless.

At a loss, he kicks him again.

 

“Quit kickin’ me!” Arthur hisses, kicking John back while he takes an aggressively large bite out of his burger.

Like, a third of it is gone.

John squints in disbelief.

“How?” he asks, voice rough like sandpaper, watching Arthur chew with ease.

“Sorry, Arthur eats like he’s never seen food before,” Abigail sighs, looking over at Arthur too. “He's a work in progress. We'll make a civilized man outta you yet, Morgan.”

The older man just takes another bite, turns to face Abigail, and chews open-mouthed and messy. Abigail takes a few of John’s fries, mimicking him with smacking lips and all.

“Yer both fuckin’ disgustin’,” Sean laughs.

John looks away from the two of them, letting his eyes fall to the table as he tears his chicken tenders into pieces. Sean steals another large handful John's fries.

Arthur throws his crumpled wrapper at Sean.

 

“Sorry not sorry, sug,” Abigail laughs. She reaches over and pats John’s arm in apology. “So, is Hosea doin’ well? Momma never really talks about what the two of them get into together.”

“Hosea’s fine. Got back from our winter hunting trip two weeks ago - think it might have been the most fun he’s ever had,” John answers, smiling softly. It had also been one of his better weeks, in recent memory. Consistent moods, if only because of Hosea’s influence.

“Ooh, you two bag anythin’ good?”

“Hosea went a _little_ crazy with his new bow. Shot about as many geese and pheasants as the season allows.”

Abigail barks out a laugh, putting a hand to her chest.

“Well, that sure sounds like he enjoyed himself. What about you?”

John hums, chewing on a chunk of chicken. He swallows, shrugs.

“A twelve-point buck mule deer and two white-tails.”

“Damn, well you guys will be stocked up for a long while, huh?” Abigail grins brightly.

“Yeah,” John smiles right back. “I can’t fit anythin’ else in my freezer. Most of my share is still at Hosea’s.”

Abigail gasps, frantically slapping at John’s hand on the table.

“ _ARE WE HAVIN’ SOME ON CHRISTMAS_ ,” she’s almost shouting and almost not even asking a question at all. John nods, taking his hand back to pop another piece of meat into his mouth.

The pepper sauce honestly isn’t that bad.

 

Abigail sighs in relief, pauses, and tilts her head.

“Oh! What about Jack? He’s ten, wasn’t this the first year he got to go with?”

“Yeah, but, I don’t think he really enjoyed it much. He liked tracking - runnin’ around in the brush - but man, if it wasn't like pullin’ teeth makin’ him stake out with us up in a tree,” John huffs, crossing his arms. “Dunno if he’s gonna want to go with us again until he’s older, then… even then, I don’t know.”

“Hm. Well, huntin’ definitely ain’t for everyone, 'specially kids.” Abigail offers. She wasn't one for hunting either - they’d tried, it didn’t go well - she just enjoyed the rewards.

 

“It's different when you're huntin’ for fun,” Arthur adds with a low rumble, eyes down at his pile of food. He looks a little tired, the way his mouth his set. “Teachin’ a kid ain't the same if you're well fed regardless if you catch somethin’ or not.”

John frowns - he’d never really thought of it that way. Never needed to.

“I guess? Jack's too kind, I think. Didn't even like _me_ killin’ the deer.”

 

Arthur hums but stays silent - he unwraps what looks to be his fourth burger, from the growing pile of garbage in front of him, and takes another impressive bite. Sean taps his fingers on the tabletop, John takes a careful sip from his drink.

Abigail pinches between her eyes with a weary sigh.

 

“Okay, I’m done waitin’,” Sean starts, slapping his palms down on the table and making Abigail jump in surprise.

“How'd _this_ happen?” He gestures between Abigail and Arthur.

“Oh, well, we met at an open mic,” Abigail offers. She sounds a little rehearsed - John guesses that’s a frequent question she gets.  

“A bar near campus does one every month. I performed after Arthur an’ he asked if I wanted to do a song sometime. I asked him if he wanted to start a band, instead.”

“He's that easy, then, huh?” Sean asks with a cheeky grin. Abigail reaches across the table to slap him on the head while Arthur grumbles something that sounds insulting under his breath.

Sean doesn't really seem too bothered by any of it.

 

“Worked out the details later over a beer - needed a drummer an’ Arthur called on a favor. Said he ‘ _knew Charles from before_ ’,” Abigail’s expression drops and she mimics Arthur's voice almost perfectly, if he spoke an octave or two higher. Arthur shakes his head with a grin, bumping his shoulder against Abigail’s.

John laughs sharply before he starts coughing into his elbow - his throat was still a little raw from inhaling soda.

“That was good,” he offers weakly, watching Abigail practically inflate with pride while she pulls out her phone from her purse. Her smile drops.

“Shoot, it's later than I thought.”

Arthur looks over her shoulder and grumbles in agreement. Abigail scoots out of the booth and stretches her arms above her head with a groan.

“Well, I'm gonna go make a call an’ get an Uber. Y'all wanna meet me outside when you're done eatin’?” she asks, jerking her thumb towards the exit. Arthur nods, onto his last burger already.

“Sure, Abi,” he drawls around a mouthful.

Abigail gives John's hair an affectionate little ruffle before she's walking out the door. John waits to watch her pass by one of the windows, illuminated gold in the streetlights. She’s already on the phone, smiling brighter than he’s ever seen.

_Wonder who’s on the end of the line?_

 

“That really what happened? Nothin’ between the two of ye?” Sean prods, bringing John's attention back to the table while Arthur takes his last gargantuan bite of food. He shrugs while he chews, wiping his mustache with a crumpled napkin.

“It is. If you’re lookin’ for gossip, there ain’t any, boy.”

Sean lifts his hands in surrender, grinning like an idiot. He nudges John with his elbow and gives him a wink. John scowls back and stands up to get away from him. Knowing Sean, he’s going to make a fool out of the both of them and he’s had enough of that for tonight.

Maybe enough for the rest of his life.

 

“Can’t blame a man for bein’ curious. Just lookin’ out for me friends, Artie.”

Arthur frowns, brow creased - confused. He collects all of his wrappers onto his tray and slides out of the booth to stand beside John, close enough that they knock shoulders.

Arthur either isn’t a fan of keeping personal space or he _is_ a fan of staying in John's.

 

“You an’ Abi hadn’t even met before tonight. Also, don’t call me that,” the man grouses. Sean stands up now - he puffs out his chest in some exaggerated attempt to look threatening and jabs Arthur in the arm with a finger.

“Think ye know who I meant, _Artie_ ol’ boy.”

Arthur’s frown softens, almost a smile - whatever it is is small but understanding. Maybe even a bit sad, if John looks close enough. The older man pats Sean on the shoulder and pushes him a step out of his way. He brushes past to the garbage.

“You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout no one gettin’ hurt, ya big idiot,” Arthur says, the words coming out in one long sigh. He tilts his head, mocking thoughtfulness. “Maybe just yourself if you keep up with that name, though.”

He puts his tray down on the counter with a little more force than necessary.

 

While Arthur’s back is turned, John punches Sean in the arm with a pointed look. Embarrassed to the point his heart races in his chest like a spooked colt.

“ _I don’t need protectin’, you dumbass_ ,” he hisses quietly while Sean just manages a cheeky grin and a shrug.

John deflates and tries to breathe. Honestly, he’s glad Arthur took Sean’s poorly executed ‘threat’ so well. The man had the kind of physique to probably straight up murder Sean in a fight if it’d came to it.

Sean might be scrappy and quick, but he wasn’t _that_ good.

 

“Christ. Well, we should get goin’. Abigail's waitin’ on us,” John offers, tossing his own tray of garbage in the bin. He shakes his cup - it’s still a good two-thirds full, he feels a little bad as he lets it fall into the garbage can with a heavy thump.

He looks to Arthur as he hums low in agreement. The older man gives the entrance an angry squint before he's quickly stalking outside, shouldering open the doors so hard, they bang against the walls.

John doesn’t wait for Sean - he runs out right behind him.

 

His first concern is Abigail.

She stands not too far from the restaurant doors, along the edge of the parking lot and visibly tense. She’s scowling, her is hair mussed and out of place. John steps beside her in a heartbeat, resting a hand at the small of her back in comfort.

It’s cold as shit. He can see his breath in short burst as the skin on his cheek tightens painfully.

 

“Leave me alone, you dick!” Abigail demands, jabbing her finger towards a man leaning along the side of a parked car only a few feet away.

The guy looks like a hot mess - light hair sticking up in odd directions, clothes a little rumpled - John assumes he’s drunk from the way he sort of wobbles on his feet and the faint flush in his face. He takes an unsteady step, the forward momentum forced from his hips in a loose gait. Abigail leans into John’s body.

_Yep, very drunk._

Arthur, who’d stayed closer to the restaurant doors on their exit, moves in the way of his immediate path. If the drunk notices Arthur, he doesn’t show it.

 

“C’mon girl, can't a guy pay you a compliment?” the man complains. Abigail stomps her foot and huffs out a loud breath in frustration,

“Can’t say I find bein’ grabbed by some ugly-ass stranger a compliment, _asshole_.”

John, thinking on Abigail’s messy hair, bristles - spring-loaded - shouts, “ _Excuse_ me?”

He takes a step towards the drunk, angry all the way down to his bones, but Abigail keeps him close with a hand latched around his wrist. He looks to her, ready to jerk his arm away.

_“What the hell, Abigail?”_

But she just keeps her eyes trained on the other two men with an intensity John doesn’t immediately recognize. Like a canary in a mine shaft, the slight nervous flicker in her gaze warns John enough to keep him from getting any closer.

To who?

 

The man tries to side-step Arthur and John watches the older man slide beside him, effortlessly leading him back and into the wall of the restaurant with a firm hand to the chest. He leans in close, casual, blocking the man off from Abigail with an arm on the brick beside his head.

 

“What’s your name, partner?” Arthur asks, voice teetering down low into some register that’s somehow friendly and bloodthirsty at the same time. A shiver runs down John’s spine at the sound of it.

 _Dangerous_.

 _Familiar_ , his heart insists _._

 

The drunk looks up at Arthur with a scowl. He shoves at his shoulder but the older man doesn’t even budge. The guy would have had better chances trying to push down a tree, honestly.

“Th’fuck is it to you? Get the fuck off me.”

Arthur presses his fist against the man’s breastbone and his breath is pushed out of his lungs with an audible wheeze.

“I asked you a question, feller. It’d be in your best interest to give me an answer.”

 

Sean chooses this moment to join them outside, slowly creeping behind Arthur and over to John and Abigail. He gestures wildly between everyone in confusion, mouthing _what the fuck,_ and John stops him with a small shake of the head.

_Not now._

“T-Tyler,” the man stutters, suddenly compliant. Arthur shifts and Tyler is taking a deep, shaky, breath.

“Well, _Tyler_ \- you often in the habit of harrasin’ women you meet on the street?” he asks, low and rough. John watches the way his hand drops from Tyler’ chest and down to rest on his own belt. It'd come across as casual if it didn't make John imagine he was reaching for a gun.

 

“The fuck kinda question is that?” Tyler spits, sobering from the threat of danger but not enough to stop escalating the problem with his aggression - poking the bear, so to speak. He tries to push away from Arthur again, but the older man just stomps down on his foot. He yelps, “Jesus Christ! Keep the bitch, I don’t care! You're fuckin’ crazy!”

“You ain’t understandin’ me, _friend_ ,” John can hear the grin in Arthur’s voice, but the terror that falls across Tyler’ face tells another story.

Arthur grabs Tyler by the collar of his shirt, slamming him against the wall and crowding in close. Tyler flails in panic, face going red, trying to pull his hands away. He manages to land an awkward punch across Arthur’s jaw but the older man barely flinches - doesn’t show any actual recognition of pain.

 _“That ain’t how you treat a lady,_ ” Arthur growls while he drags Tyler up the wall.

Tyler chokes - he isn't breathing.

John leaps over to Arthur’s side, free to move as Abigail releases his hand. From close up, he can see how Arthur’s positioned one of his fists up against the bump of Tyler's Adam’s apple - subtly, and painfully, restricting his airflow.

Smart, if he was being totally honest.

Low effort, and, like swelling, your lungs could heave and try as they might, but close to nothing was getting in or out.

 _Dumb_ , because you could actually kill a guy like this.

Crush his windpipe and he's dead in a few painful, horrible minutes if you can't punch a hole in his throat.

 

John grabs Arthur’s shoulder to drag him off of Tyler before he can do any serious damage. It’s like trying to lead a stubborn horse out of the barn. Arthur rumbles in frustration and shakes John’s hand off with a jerk - he bristles, but doesn’t step away from him. He actually moves a little closer, looming in John’s space.

Tyler clutches at his throat and coughs, wet and rattling. He’ll hurt tomorrow, but at least he's still conscious.

John shoves Tyler away, making him stumble and fall onto the sidewalk while he's still weak and breathless. It’s mostly for his own benefit - just to get a little more distance between him and Arthur - but he can’t ignore his own degree of loathing for the guy.

He didn't really care how rough he was.

He would have punched him too, if the whole interaction wasn’t already so one-sided.

However, keyword: _punched_.

Not choked.

 

“Get outta here, you goddamn idiot!” he urges, the man scrambling up and into an unsteady sprint. He quickly disappears around the corner and John lets out a sigh of relief. He looks back to Arthur and throws his hands out in confusion.

Arthur looks absolutely wild, huffing out a harsh breath. He wipes a hand down his face, pulling at the skin, then gives John a withered, flustered smile that’s little more than a grimace.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Jesus, try not to kill anyone,” John just scoffs, scowling.

John hadn't been involved in any fights for at least a year or so - and then they were mostly just minor bar scuffles - that the fading surge of adrenaline is like falling back into a drug. He was trying to be a good influence on Jack, not relying on his fists so quickly in an argument, but - _man_.

He missed this.

 

“Arthur, you promised me you wouldn’t start any fights in town!” Abigail reprimands, already back to her usual self. Arthur at least manages to look a little guilty when he frowns over at her and Sean.

“I didn’t start nothin’! That was just talkin’.”

“I'll remind you I have _eyes_ , Arthur Morgan. In what world was that _‘just talkin'’_?”

“I was only makin’ a point - I wasn’t gonna hurt him.” Arthur grumbles, kicking at a loose pebble on the asphalt.

“Much,” Sean adds. Arthur sighs, concedes.

“Much.”

“What the fuck even was that?” John asks, confused with how relaxed Abigail is about everything. She was never this calm about any of his fights.

He’s a little surprised the commotion hasn’t attracted any witnesses, actually - no one came out of the Whataburger to investigate, the neighboring buildings and houses are all still shuttered and dark.

He wonders how often this kind of thing happens.

 

“Mister Morgan here has a rather problematic way of showin’ he’s an honorable man.” Abigail sounds just a little exhausted as she walks over to the two of them. “Just be glad our Uber’s almost here and Tyler didn’t seem smart enough to call the cops. I don’t fancy the idea of runnin’ from the law again.”

“ _Again_?” John asks, louder. More confused. When? Why hadn't he heard about that?

“Don’t worry about it, John.” Abigail shushes him. “Now, I’ve got a question for you - before I forget and before we all get swept away in Arthur’s penchant for violence.”

 

A single car speeds by the parking lot, the radio turned up high enough that John can hear the bass-line - the pitch rises and dips as it passes. Arthur fills the immediate silence as he kicks at another pebble. It rolls somewhere in his direction.

 

“We are hangin’ out before our second show tomorrow. I need to squeeze in as much Marston-time as I can while I'm here.”

John looks back over to Abigail, the car long gone now.

“I thought you had a question?” he quips back, habitually falling back into teasing familiarity even if he still doesn’t fully grasp what happened tonight.

“I lied. But it ain’t like you spend your weekends with anyone but _maybe_ Hosea and Jack.” Abigail rests her hands on her hips, glancing over at the street as a car parks along the curb.

The Uber driver.

Abigail’s phone chirps and she raises a hand in acknowledgement. Arthur’s already sauntering over and leaning down by the passenger-side window, exchanging in soft tones with the driver. Sean skips over to join him.

“‘Sides, I was gonna go to Don’t Fret to pick up some new strings, figured you’d wanna go see how your baby’s doin’?” Abigail sing-songs, teasing.

John groans, “You know that’s cheatin’.”

“I’ll take what I can get, sug. We’re goin’ drinkin’ after the show, too. Sadie’ll be there. She misses you, even if she don't say it outright.”

“You still talk with Sadie?” He asks, looking over at Arthur. He hadn't seen her much in the past few months. Sadie did a lot of odd jobs, held a weird schedule. She'd also called him a miserable bastard and walked out on him the last time they'd hung out.

Admittedly, he _was_ being a complete asshole.

She wasn't wrong to leave that day.

 

Abigail hasn't responded yet, so he glances away from Arthur's legs to her. She’s giving him a goofy smile - if he didn't know her, he'd want to call it unattractive.

But he recognizes that expression, he's only seen it one other time.

That time, it was about him.

 

“Are… are you and Sadie _together_?” He asks, hushed on the off chance he's wrong. Abigail nods furiously, face brightening like he'd seen earlier.

“WE'REHAVIN’OURFIRSTDATEONSUNDAY,” she shouts in a rush, jumping and throwing her arms around John's shoulders. He spins her around out of habit, hugging her tightly as she laughs.

“I'm happy for you, Abigail. Really,” he murmurs into her neck before setting her down on her feet again. She winks and rests her hand on his chest, over his heart.

“Now you _gotta_ go out with Arthur, sug. We'll have the gayest double dates the Panhandle's _ever seen_.”

John blushes but laughs anyway - it's a funny thought. They'd probably be the most most destructive dates, too, if all four of them were in the same room.

Sadie had been his partner in crime when he had been deep in the habit of fighting everyone that looked his way. She was just as mad at the world as he’d been and having someone to watch your back was a plus.

It was fun - wild - and when he'd gotten most of his scars. He'd show up at home, late at night or early in the morning, bruised and sometimes even bloody. Usually, Hosea would kick him right out and into the shed.

Didn't want Jack seeing him before he left for school, didn't want him trying to emulate his behavior.

John didn't blame him.

 

“Tomorrow. What time should I meet you?”

“Yes!” Abigail pumps a fist in the air. “Meet us at my place, let's do... noon?”

“Sure, I'll text you when I'm headed over.” John shrugs and pats his pants pocket.

His phone isn't there.

_Shit._

 

“I… left my phone at Pearson's.”

“Hopefully Bill didn't smash it,” Abigail winces.

“I don't think he hates me _that_ much.”

Abigail just hums - he's not sure if she's agreeing or not. She gives him a pat on the shoulder, sympathetic.

Okay, that's a no.

“Whatever, go get in your damn uber,” he scowls. They walk to the curb where Arthur and Sean are waiting, talking about alcohol, of all things.

“I'm _just_ sayin’, American spirits ain't bad, but they'll never be as great as the stuff from my neck o'the woods,” Sean is shrugging. Arthur scoffs and shakes his head in disagreement.

“It might be good, but I ain't payin an arm and a leg for a bottle that ain't gonna be appreciated by anyone else anyway. Plenty of decent stuff that’s cheap.”

“So, you'd rather drink shite because ya got shite friends,” Sean summarizes with another shrug. Arthur punches him in the shoulder and Sean yelps. He backs up into John, throwing him off-step and almost making the two of them stumble to the ground.

“Ah! Johnny boy here is a lover of all things whiskey an’ whisky. Bond over that an’ stop hittin’ me, ya fuckin’ brute,” Sean says with a grin as he all but throws John at Arthur.

This time, he doesn’t manage to catch himself, tripping into his chest. Arthur catches him easily, steadying him close and upright by his waist with firm - _warm!_ \- hands. John stutters out a thanks, too embarrassed to look him in the eye, and awkwardly pats Arthur's chest like he does the horses at his stable.

 _Stop it, John_.

Arthur chuckles softly before he leads him back a step. His hands linger on his hips for just a moment before he lets go. John watches them clench at his sides, uselessly

“We'll have to talk about that tomorrow, Marston,” he rumbles pleasantly. John finally braves a glance and immediately regrets it with the way his breath catches- something in Arthur’s expression is different, more affectionate.

...Is it really that easy to get on his good side?

Whiskey?

 

“Y'all can dweeb out tomorrow, I wanna go home,” Abigail pats John's shoulder and kicks at Arthur, directing him towards the backseat door. He opens it and lets her slide inside first. Always a gentleman.

“Y-yeah, tomorrow,” John murmurs, watching as Arthur gives him a shallow nod of his head and a wink before he gets in the car after Abigail.

The door shuts.

The car drives away.

John’s heart hurts.

Sean slaps at his arm frantically.

 

“Johnny, if that weren't flirtin’ then, please, jus’ kill me now.”

“I… I don't know. I think he just likes embarrassin’ me,” John mumbles, still watching the street for a glimpse of distant tail lights.

Out loud, his denial sounds pretty fucking stupid.

“Now yer makin’ me feel bad for Artie, goin’ after an idiot like yerself.” Sean kicks the side of his boot. “C'mon then, back to Pearson's. Ain’t gettin’ any warmer.”

“...yeah.”

 

Miraculously, after a frigid walk John didn't remember any of, they find that Bill hadn't destroyed his phone - if only because Karen pulled it from the box of security bags after the majority had been claimed through the night.

His was probably the only phone in town with an Aberfeldy sticker on the back - hell, he was one of the few people in town who even knew what Aberfeldy was to start with - so it wasn't hard to identify.

 

“I was hoping you’d be back for this.” She hands the bag to him over the bar with a knowing wink and asks how his shit-show of a night went. They sit and Sean answers her questions for him, regaling Karen on their Whataburger trip and every one of John's _hilarious_ slip ups.

He notices Karen's tip jar is jam-packed with bills as Sean talks. Higher bills too - fives, tens, twenties. Seems like her battle armor worked out well, tonight.

That's good? He's still a little conflicted on her tactic.

 

“So he's all, ‘ _We'll have to talk about that tomorrow, Marston_ ’,” Sean tries his hand at mimicking Arthur - it's not as good as Abigail's, but he's only known the man for a few hours. John doesn't want to admit he's impressed, but he even nailed his strange amalgam-southern accent and cadence.

“But this fuckin’ lump here doesn't think he was flirtin’!” Sean points at John, frustrated. Karen directs a rather exasperated sort of expression John's way, too. He shrugs, too tired to talk about it.

“John, I swear to Christ. Uninterested men don’t tend to have a habit of winkin’ at practical strangers. He’s interested.”

“Even Karen agrees!” Sean shouts.

John sighs and nods - okay, fine. _Maybe_ Arthur was interested, God knows why.

 

“Whatever. I'm gonna go home. You need a ride, Sean?” he asks, pushing his hair out of his face with his fingers. The two of them lived in the same apartment building - on the same floor, even. It was how he and Sean had met, became friends, how he got the job at Pearson’s through Karen.

It was also how he knew whether or not Sean and Karen's relationship was’ “off again”. He could hear the fighting down the hall that would usually precede a door slamming, a car driving away, and finally Sean making his way to John’s apartment with a bottle of booze and his tail between his legs. Sean would wail about being a fool and losing Karen, he’d drink himself stupid, fall asleep on John’s couch, and leave the next morning.

At first, it was funny.

Then it got annoying.

It’s beginning to be funny again.

 

“Nah, gonna stay here with gorgeous ‘til close,” Sean says with a wink when Karen looks his way. She ‘awws’ and pours him a beer which Sean takes gleefully.

John honestly isn’t sure if that was his intention all along or if he was genuinely complimenting her.

“Okay. You guys joinin’ everyone after the show tomorrow?”

“Probably. I wanna let someone else make the drinks for once… and I _guess_ it’d be nice to see everyone,” Karen says with a chuckle and a shrug while Sean just gestures vaguely at her - he’ll be wherever she is.

“Alright. Well, g’night, guys,” John says as he stands up from his seat, giving the two a small wave. They both yell “Night!” as he walks to the exit.

Bill is still near the door, inside on a stool watching for trouble and checking IDs as patrons trickle in from outside. He tries to give him a friendly nod on the way out.

Bill frowns but nods back.

Baby steps.

 

John walks back to his car in the dark, his scars pulling painfully in the cold. His nose tingles and the tips of his ears sting.

He should have brought his scarf, in retrospect.

 

Both of the cars he’d parked between are gone when he gets there, the bumpers on his truck surprisingly scratch-free. He fumbles with the keys for a good minute, his fingers glacially slow from cold, before he can get himself inside. John blasts the heater as he starts the engine but it just blows cold - he closes the vents and and chugs on home, shivering. He could sit around and warm up the engine, but he’s not really feeling the effort tonight.

It’s a four block drive and he’s not worried about it. His truck complains, accelerating a little rough and rumbling a bit more, but it’s fine.

He’s fine.

He doesn’t see any other cars on his drive home.

 

John is inexplicably exhausted by the time he parks in his building’s lot. Climbing the stairs to his floor proves difficult, having to pull himself up each step of the stairwell with a flagging  grip on the railing. He almost drops his keys as he unlocks his door.

He's never felt so utterly drained in his life.

Even his most grueling summer days at the stables when he’d come home drenched in sweat were nothing compared to this.

 

John shuffles inside his entryway, not bothering to turn on a light - too much effort. Instead, in the dark, he manages to toe his boots off and throw his coat over one of the chairs at his dining table. He rolls himself over the back of the couch, already halfway unconscious by the time he settles into the cushions.

 

 

That night, John dreams of a snow storm, one with weather so thick you could barely see your hands in front of your face. It’s biting and cold, seeping deep down into his bones until it feels like fire.

He dreams of wolves, creatures born and howling in the storm - an invisible threat that’s both everywhere and nowhere. A pack of them, ragged and starving, tearing at his flesh and spilling his blood across the snow.

He dreams of strong arms - holding a familiarity he'd long since given up on - carrying him away from a lonely death. Arms that effortlessly fight back the hungry beasts and burning hypothermia.

He dreams of Arthur, in a thick fur-lined coat that smells like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur: *accidentally selects beat instead of threaten*  
> -honor  
> Arthur: :O
> 
> Whataburger Marty Robbins:  
> [El Paso](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAO7vs_Q9is)
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr if ya want:  
> [Berwyn Rose!](https://berwynrose.tumblr.com/)  
> Ask me questions, say hello, share ideas, whatevs. :]  
> I'll be sharing a spotify playlist on Tumblr pretty soon - there's like 6hrs of music and totally not organized, so I may have overdone it, lol.  
> I'll include the link in the next chapter update, too.


	4. 13 Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brittle skinned  
> frostbitten heart  
> the howling gets louder
> 
> the howling gets louder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise?  
> I'm just always going to be shit at posting with any sense of regularity.  
> Sorry, lol. Here's 10,000~ words for your troubles, kind friends.
> 
> Also, here's that Spotify playlist I promised y'all (also available on my Tumblr). It now has 12 hours of music!  
> [TGOY Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7AG3GeYcHqKpfAJKPgNRdG)
> 
> And, as usual, I'll link the various songs that are directly quoted and/or referenced in the end notes.

 

John wakes up to the morning sun streaming through his living room windows - everything feels warped, like deja vu. His scars burn like they had when the wounds were fresh. Angry and inflamed, seeping blood and pus.

John rubs at his face, willing the sensation away. 

He's fine.

He’s _ alive _ .

 

He'd had a dream - _an_ _actual_ _dream_ \- and Arthur was there, like he belonged anywhere else but in some weird fantasy. Shooting wolves as they tried to attack them in the cold, strong and unwavering. Unafraid, like he was backed by the fires of the sun itself in his fury. Bright in John's eyes like the blood on the snow.

The memory of his dream makes his heart unsettle in his chest, off-kilter. 

Anxiety swells, insisting something is wrong.

Something is  _ missing _ .

 

John inhales slowly and looks around his apartment to convince himself everything is fine. 

The walls are solid and well insulated, he’s on his lumpy couch and not a frayed cot.

The door is locked, the windows are closed. 

There’s no snow outside.

He lives in Amarillo, Texas.

He’s twenty-three years old.

 

He's fine.

He’s alone.

 

Once his mind settles - once his reality settles - John notices his phone on the coffee table beside him, light flashing with a notification.

_ Shit _ . What time is it?

Did he manage to sleep through meeting up with Abigail?

 

John grabs his phone, panicked, until he sees the clock.

Quarter to ten - Abigail probably isn't even awake yet. He sighs, tension releasing like a steam valve.

Then, he notices the text.

 

**Unknown number**

**7:38am**

_ *attachment* _

 

There's no message along with it - mysterious.

Suspicious.

 

John frowns, rubbing at his eyes as he looks at the text. 

Who the fuck were they? 

He doesn't even recognize the area code. 

Is it still in Texas?

(A quick Google search says yes - Beaumont, along the southeast coast and practically in Louisiana.)

 

The attachment is a photo, so there’s a large possibility is that it's just a wrong number. Maybe John’s just unlucky enough to have the random combination of a phone number that a woman gave a man in a bar. Would a guy send a dick pic at seven in the morning on a Saturday?

Maybe.

Probably.

 

John sits and stares at his phone for a moment.

 

_ Fuck it _ .

He downloads the message. If the photo sucks, he’ll delete it and maybe send a stupid meme in response. 

End of story.

 

_ Huh. _

Surprise one: it's not a dick. Bonus, it doesn't suck.

 

It's a great photo - strangely atmospheric and wonderfully composed - of him and Abigail talking outside of the Whataburger, under the streetlight and thrown in a world of contrast with orange light and blue shadow. 

From the bright grins they both share, John guesses it was around the time she'd told him about Sadie. 

 

Surprise two: from the angle of the shot, there's only one person who, realistically, could have taken it.

_ Arthur. _

Sean sure as fuck didn't do it.

 

John laughs to himself and saves the number to his contacts. The text was oddly thoughtful - almost a gift - sent in the early morning like thoughts of John came to Arthur with the sunrise.

Desires, to share a different perspective on a  _ strange _ fucking night.

That's an idea that makes John's heart warm. He feels a little better. Real Arthur overtakes the wild fantasy of his dream. 

 

John sits up on the couch, stretching out his stiff muscles and cracking joints before sending a response.

 

**9:47am**

_ Guitarist, cowboy, and photographer? Anything you don't do? _

 

His phone buzzes in response before he can even put it back down. Damn.

 

**9:47am**

_ Been told I'm a bad cook. _

_ Many times. _

 

Arthur doesn't protest the cowboy claim - but he doesn’t mention it, either. So, was Sean right? 

John wants to push a little further, but he's worried Arthur might just stop talking to him altogether. He opts for snark, instead. Seems like the safer bet.

 

**9:48am**

_ I’m surprised, with almost half of the internet being food blogs. _

_ It might be easy. For someone to get better, I mean. _

 

**9:48am**

_ My food gets the job done! _

 

**9:48am**

_ Yeah, so what if everyone hates it? _

_ Not your problem. _

 

**9:48am**

_ You little  _ 💩💩💩

 

John tosses his phone onto the couch beside him, trying to rein in his manic giggles from Arthur’s response. It’s juvenile and yet it’s exactly how Arthur would text.

His stomach  _ hurts, _ he’s laughing so hard.

He’s really glad he’s alone in his apartment, too. He sounds like a hyena.

 

John's not a teenager anymore, but damn if he doesn't feel like one right now - happy over a text, like hearing back from a crush.

_ It's not a crush. _

 

He shakes his head and rubs at his eyes again while he calms down, wiping away any of the lingering sleep and tears at the corners. If he's gonna make anything presentable of himself today, and hopefully be a little less awkward, he's got to get up and get clean.

Sleep was hard to come by on weekdays, most weekends just felt like playing catch-up. He could probably sleep for another two hours right now, if he let himself. 

He really  _ would _ miss meeting with Abigail, then.

 

John's joints pop more as he stands - he groans. His couch was hilariously lumpy to sit on, but _not_ _quite_ so hilariously uncomfortable to sleep on. Though, with how he came into possession of the couch, he wasn't surprised. 

John had found it on the side of the street during his first week in the apartment and had one hell of a time dragging it up the stairs by himself. 

Now, it’s here and he’s not getting rid of it any time soon unless it goes out the window in pieces. Until that day comes, he’ll just cover all of the stains and rips with knitted blankets from the thrift store.

 

John shuffles over to the kitchen, pulling out his tin of coffee grounds from the cupboard beside the fridge, half a mind to make some breakfast for once, too.

 

Instead, he gets distracted with the oils swirling on the surface of the steeping coffee in his french press. Breakfast is forgotten in favor of daydreaming - how heavy would a gun feel in your hand when you're half dead?

Would you eat the wolf that would eat you?

 

*****G H O S T S*****

 

The weather is supposed to stay fairly cold today, so John knows he needs to dress heavier than usual if he doesn't want to be miserable. He layers a black button-up over a white waffle-knit thermal, pairs that with a pair of straight-fit jeans and some thick woolen socks. Anything to keep him warm through the day, as well as anything to combat the frostbitten chill in his bones that he just  _ couldn't shake _ . 

Like he'd been sitting in snow all night.

 

John sighs - he's ready to face the day, or, at the very least, as ready as he'll ever be.

Part of him still wants to run away, now that he's fully awake and focused, not distracted by cute text messages. Last night was daunting, but today is beginning to turn into a mountain with an insurmountable peak in his mind.

He swallows down his anxiety with black coffee.

 

Getting dressed didn't take very long and left him with an aimless chunk of time before he needs to leave, so John spends the rest of his morning standing in the kitchen, browsing through his social media feeds.

It seems like Arthur doesn't have a Facebook account (or Instagram), but it's not like he looked for very long. 

Maybe his account is private?

Whatever.

John thumbs through the menu and clears the search from his history.

 

Abigail posted a status about thirty minutes ago that he's been tagged in.  _ Hopefully _ , that means she's still awake.

There had been plenty of times during their formative years when she hadn’t even woken up by the time they’d planned to meet. He’d spent many early, uncomfortably silent, summer afternoons in her kitchen with her mother, sipping on sweet tea and  _ waiting _ .

He really hopes she’s broken that habit. 

 

Her post is a video memory from five years ago, when they were still dating and seniors in high school. The camera is shaky and constantly shifting out of focus while it jumps around to other faces in the small gathering crowd, but he and Abigail are still clearly recognizable at the epicentre. 

He remembers this day.

 

**Abigail Roberts** 10:15am

_ Look at these cuties! ;)  _

 

Abigail was in the school choir and John had probably been his most confident with his guitar. A state-wide competition had been coming up that winter and Abigail was performing a solo for the first time. John wasn't - formal accompaniment needed certain qualifications he just didn't have, but he'd still learned the song for her.

Still played with her on days she wasn't practicing with her lessons teacher.

 

The day of the competition started with a long drive to Dallas as a patchwork family, followed by hours of waiting in a packed performance hall for general auditions in the back rooms to finish. Abigail placed 4th - runner up. Not high enough to perform on the grand stage of the hall, but enough to stand in the award ceremony and get a cheque for $200. 

_ Good _ , for a first try, but not what she had dreamed of.

John had still loved her for it, captivated by the talent she possessed.

 

Later, outside on the marble steps of the hall, she performed anyway. Someone lent John their guitar - an incredibly crafted acoustic that probably cost more than John's entire public education - and they played her piece to the lingering crowd of young musicians and families who dared to face the cold.

Abigail was still in her black dress for the competition while John sat beside her, in red plaid, looking considerably less formal and more out of place. She'd auditioned with the song in English, but in this particular recorded moment, she'd chosen the original Portuguese. She didn't actually speak a lick of it, but she'd loved how it sounded.

He recognizes Hosea and Susan's voices behind the camera, murmuring soft sounds of amazement as they play. He hadn't been nervous at all that day, even looking like the outsider he was. No, the nerves came later, almost a week later, and in spades.

He hasn't thought about this day in ages.

 

Abigail had been proud of him and his performance. Hosea and Susan, too - but that day had only proven to John that he  _ didn’t  _ belong in that world with her. He was an imposter - a joke - among all those people who had devoted their entire lives to music. They were worthy of the money spent on it, the thousands of dollars on instruments and lessons that propelled them towards greatness.

And what had John done? Fucked around on his hand-me-down guitar at home whenever he felt like it, figured out chords by ear, made up fingering and techniques as he went. He wasn’t on the same level as those kids. 

He still wasn’t, years later, if you asked.

But, as stupid as it all was - as stupid as  _ he _ was about everything - it’s a fond memory, now. It had been a good day, the ride home full of aimless energy that John and Abigail had directed towards sex later that night. She sang him to sleep while he tried to strum out a melody on her body.

 

The music comes back to him as he listens to the video. 

He could probably still play the song if he tried. 

 

John glances up from his phone, down the short hall of his apartment and to the locked door of the extra bedroom, where his guitar is collecting dust.

He’d probably need to put new strings on it if he wanted to play without them breaking. With how long it's been, they wouldn't be able to hold a tune for shit, either.

 

Strings are pretty cheap, maybe he'll look at the shop with Abigail?

… or maybe not, if Arthur is going to be with them. 

Something about having to play or even  _ talk _ music with the man made his palms feel sweaty.  _ (knees weak, mom’s spaghetti-)  _

He doesn’t really want to go, if he was being completely honest. Last night was a different John, and today’s John didn’t really want to leave his apartment the more he thought about it.

 

Defeated, he sighs and downs the remaining coffee in his mug, and sets it aside in the sink. He'll clean it later tonight when he gets back, whenever that may be.

He double checks his pockets - wallet, phone, keys. Shrugs on his sherpa-lined jean jacket and a soft navy scarf for good measure.

Time to go.

 

***** G H O S T S *****

 

It's still pretty cold by the time John walks outside. It had dropped below freezing in the early hours of the morning and the chill hasn’t lifted with the rising of the sun. He can see his breath, golden in the light, before it fades into the pale blue of the sky. 

His truck roars to life after one more turn than usual. John sits in his parking spot for a few minutes while he listens to the engine, radio turned down low to a whisper, paying extra attention to the steadying rhythm of the cylinders as they fire. 

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, the worn leather of his gloves squeaks against the oil-polished leather of the wheel.

He should do some winter maintenance soon.

He’s been putting it off, like everything else.

 

After his truck is sufficiently warmed up, John makes his way through town - to the mid-century neighborhoods that make up western Amarillo - to Abigail’s house. He cruises at an aimless speed, taking in the sights on the way. Old buildings, old stores with rusted signs, old cars that looked like they were about ready to fall apart. 

The town feels strange, dilapidated. Even if he knows the route to Abigail’s like the back of his hand, he’s second guessing every turn he makes and reading street signs. 

It had felt this way when he’d first moved here as a kid.

Unfamiliar. 

That sense of  _ wrong _ from this morning looms in his mind again, like he’s forgotten something important.

 

Wallet, phone, keys -  _ obviously _ .

 

John shakes his head, like he could shoo away the thought like a bothersome fly.

It works for only a little while.

Works long enough for him to get to the house, to pull into Abigail’s gravel driveway, parking behind her little beater Volkswagen with a few too many bumper stickers. One, a bright yellow sign in the rear window, is new since the last time he’s seen her. 

_ Former Baby on Board. _

“Aw, Christ,” John swears under his breath.

He gets out of the truck, leaving the door unlocked, and makes his way up to the house. His heart races a bit, makes him think of prom, back in their junior year. Pulling up in Hosea’s car to pick up Abigail, a bundle of raw nerves dressed in a stuffy suit and terrified he was going to drop the box with her corsage.

White roses and blue baby’s breath.

 

John knocks his customary rap on the door, scuffing the soles of his boots on the cracked cement of the front step. He listens to the answering thud of footsteps inside, getting closer and louder until the lock slides free and the door opens. 

John’s heart skips painfully.

He’d expected Susan.

He gets Arthur.

Arthur, who had cut his hair and trimmed his beard - shaved off all but his mustache - since last night. 

Arthur, the man that saved him from hunger-rabid wolves like divine intervention .

Why couldn't it have been Susan?

 

“Mornin’, Johnny Boy,” he rumbles in his comfortable baritone followed with a slight smile that pulls less at the corners of his mouth, but rather brings a degree of brilliance to his expression. Arthur pulls the door open a little wider in invitation. 

In the sun, Arthur seems so bright that John finds himself squinting to focus on the man. There’s just a faint shadow of a bruise along his jaw, the only remnant of last night.

His thoughts stutter -  _ do you hear the wolves howling? _

 

Arthur leaves him at the door, walking back through the formal living room that serves as the entryway, assuming John will follow. 

John fumbles and jerks into stiff motion, speechless, shutting the door behind him and hanging his coat and scarf on the wall-rack beside Abigail's leather jacket. He swallows, his throat is sandpaper and he feels strange in his skin, like it doesn’t him fit right. 

Too tight in the shoulders, sleeves a few inches too short, pants long enough to fold under his shoes. A mismatched suit bought in a thrift shop.

John tries to take a deep, slow breath but it catches in his chest on the way out.

 

Abigail's senior photo in its gold frame, time faded floral wallpaper, lace curtains, light glinting on the glass-top coffee table a gun barrel in the sun,  _ Arthur. _

 

The faux-fur lining of his jacket, the spring of plush carpet beneath his boots, snow-chill in his bones like ice under his skin,  _ Arthur _ .

  
  


The antique radio by the window that’s always set low to country, tree branches rattling in the wind from inside an old shack left abandoned,  _ Arthur _ .

  
  
  


Fresh baked cookies,  _ Arthur _ .

  
  
  
  


Sharp iron in the blood filling his mouth _. _

 

“You alright?”

 

John shakes his head clear - mouth empty, feet steady on the ground. He looks over to Arthur, now watching him with a concerned raise of his brow. John shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets to try and stop himself from fidgeting.

“Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay,” he mumbles, immediately going to rub at his scarred cheek out of habit. Hand back in the pocket.

Arthur’s expression softens as he shrugs, relaxed. 

“Well, we got some time to kill. Abi still ain’t finished gettin’ ready,” he explains, choosing to let John’s sudden spike in anxiety pass unspoken, if he noticed it at all. It’s a relief, to say the least.

“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” John says, chuckling even if his heart isn’t really in it. He watches as Arthur’s attention goes somewhere out the windows. 

His nerves settle a little more, almost enough to relax. 

 

Arthur looks better in the daylight, albeit hard to look at. He’s less like a force of nature and more like a man. The deep royal blue of his plaid shirt suits him, falls along the line of his shoulders in just the right way. Still handsome -  _ very _ handsome - that seems effortless in the way he carries himself. A way that John hasn’t mastered, and probably wouldn’t ever. 

It takes a moment, but John realizes he’s been blatantly staring and Arthur’s watching him for god knows how long. He looks a little smug.

John bites the inside of his cheek at getting caught red-handed, struggling. 

_ Whoops. _

 

“What?” he barks out, sounding a little more aggressive in his guilt. The older man rolls his eyes, like he'd expected it, and walks closer. His amusement turns wolfish in the way he grins beside him.

“‘M just waitin’ for the smoke to come out your ears,” his voice is low, teasing in a way that makes John’s cheeks flare up with heat. He finds himself again and scowls, jabbing at Arthur’s arm with a closed fist.

“Shut the fuck up,” he rasps. Arthur laughs and flexes the tension out of his bicep.

“C’mon, Marston,” he snorts and claps a hand down on John’s shoulder, gripping it tight. He pushes him towards the door frame to the kitchen. The warmth in his palm burns through the fabric of John’s shirts and seeps into his skin, smoothing him down like an iron on a crease.

 

In the kitchen is where he finally finds Susan, the older woman manning a stand-mixer on the counter top like a battle-station amidst the chaos of holiday baking. Arthur’s hand falls from his shoulder and takes his heat along with him. John shivers, even if the kitchen is considerably warmer than the rest of the house with the oven running.

“Mornin’ Mr. Marston,” Susan greets, managing her usual way of coming off cross and affectionate all at once. She doesn’t bother looking up from her baking. 

John doesn’t take offense - she’s probably on a tight schedule. 

Like she is every Christmas since he’s known her.

 

“Cookies for an army, Ms. Grimshaw?” John asks as he steps to her side. He slings an arm around her shoulders in a sideways hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. It’s been a long while since he grew taller than her, but she seems smaller than he remembers. 

“The parish, but close enough,” Susan nudges him with her elbow, soft. Standing so close, she gives him a glance and a brisk smile that smoothes some of the wrinkles in her cheeks and warms a part of John’s heart that’s been broken so many times.

Third time’s the charm.

 

He lets go with a hum and switches his attention to the percolator beside the kitchen sink. 

Mug.

Coffee.

Table.

 

John sits. Arthur takes the chair across from him - there’s a UT Austin mug on the table with a folded newspaper and pencil. The crossword is half completed in a handwriting John guesses is Arthur’s. Loopy cursive, neater and much nicer than he would have ever guessed.

He takes a sip of his coffee. 

 

“So what’s the plan today, boys?” Susan asks while she scoops out chunks of dough, rolling them in her hands before rolling them in a bowl of spiced sugar. 

Snickerdoodles - a crowd favorite. 

John’s, in particular.

 

“Abigail wants to go to Don’t Fret. That’s all I know,” he explains with a shrug that he knows Susan can’t see. 

“That’s all  _ anyone _ knows,” Arthur adds offhand, picking up his pencil and filling in another line in the newspaper. John snorts and Susan scoffs, grumbling something about  _ children _ under her breath.

The oven timer goes off and she sets to work.

One pan of cookies out, set on the stove top, and the new tray of rolled dough goes in the oven in its place. Susan resets the timer and wipes her hands off on the towel she always has hanging on the oven door handle.

She walks across the kitchen to the other doorway, the one that leads to the rest of the house. The French doors are open, John can hear water running in the bathroom just a little way down the hall.

“ABIGAIL,” Susan shouts, propping her hands on her hips out of habit and every bit the schoolmarm she is.

_ “Almost done!” _ Abigail sing-songs back, muted by distance.

“So, we got twenty minutes, you'd say?” John guesses with a snort, watching as Susan returns to her station at the counter top. 

“It’s almost like you  _ know  _ my daughter, John,” she jokes dryly. She covers the mixer bowl with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge before grabbing her own cup of coffee hidden behind her cookbook, taking a seat at the table beside him. 

_ Teacher of the Year 2018 _ .

Her expression goes soft at the edges.

“I’m glad she was able to get you back to the world of the living. Feels like we haven’t seen you all year.” Her voice is as soft as her expression and it’s disarming.

John’s face goes red-hot, he takes a scalding gulp of his coffee and hums in vague recognition. 

It’s probably been a good seven months since he went to one of their family dinners. 

Arthur glances up from the newspaper, quick enough that John almost misses it. Catches John’s eyes and there’s a darkness in his gaze that disarms him.

Makes him want to shrink down in his seat like a scolded child.

He fidgets and taps his toes.

 

“But don’t worry about catchin’ anyone up on things, little Jack talked about you non-stop at our dinners,” Susan continues, tone turning a little bit too aggressive, more than anyone could still consider polite conversation. No time to be sentimental.

John ducks his head in shame - Jack  _ would  _ talk about him. 

 

Jack had been real young when his mom had passed, but he'd talked about her near every day for months. It had been hard on John and Hosea to listen to him, but to John, it felt like Jack had been trying to keep her alive with his stories. It was his way of processing grief.

But, maybe he just hadn’t understood the loss, back then.

 

“I’ll be better,” he murmurs. Susan hums a tilted ‘mm _ hmm _ ’ and it feels like he’s just signed some sort of soul-binding contract. 

Bi-weekly dinners are back on the schedule. 

Indefinitely.

 

The kitchen falls into a lulling rhythm, the ticking clock mounted above the sink and the low hiss of the gas oven a steady metronome. Quiet music from the living room, something that sounds familiar but John can’t quite place it.

 

Arthur's pencil lead scratches on the paper. 19 down,  _ uncanny _ .

 

“JOHN!” Abigail's voice breaks the silence, making John jump in his chair. Quick, padding footsteps grow louder and louder until she’s bursting through the doorway with her arms out wide in greeting. John grimaces in embarrassment and gives her a nod, but Abigail frowns when he doesn’t stand. She lets her hands fall dramatically to her jean-clad hips, a mirror image of Susan just a few minutes ago.

“Really? You ain’t even gonna give me a hug?” she asks with a pout.

“I ain’t gonna  _ get up _ to give you one. You’re the one that made me wait - you walk over here,” John deadpans, gesturing from the clock to the table with a broad wave of his hand. Abigail scoffs, feigning insult, but shuffles over beside him with a cheeky grin anyway. bumping him in the bicep with her hip and wrapping her arms around his head. Blinded by her striped shirt and enveloped in the scent of her perfume -  _ floral, wild, sharp _ \- he can hear Arthur's low chuckle.

Abigail musses his hair affectionately, finishing with a kiss to the forehead. John sneaks a hand under her arms and wipes at his skin, knowing full well that she's left another imprint of her lipstick.

His hand comes back red.

 

“ _ God _ ,  _ woman _ , can’t you get better makeup?” he gripes. There are commercials for smudge-free lipsticks, he's seen them. They can’t be  _ that  _ expensive.

Abigail cackles and lets him go, grabbing the last chair at the table beside Arthur. She picks up his coffee and takes a big gulp while Arthur just looks on, unimpressed and unamused.

“My lipstick is fine, I just put on extra before I see you, sug,” she explains, showing him the near-clean lip of the mug as proof.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“ _ Language _ ,” Susan inserts, looking at John from over the rim of her glasses. He clenches his jaw, exhales hard through his nose. Bites his tongue. Best not to provoke the wrath of Susan this early in the day. 

“Yup,” Abigail pops the ‘p’. “Just surprised you  _ never _ figured that out.” 

She winks, softening the insult, and leans down to the side to grab her boots from under the table. The wooden heels clack on the floor tile as she slips them on.

 

“Did it yesterday at Pearson’s, too,” Arthur adds, sliding his coffee across the table, away from Abigail. The mug looks small in his hand.

John frowns.

“ _ Why _ are we still friends?”

“Because our parents are besties,” Abigail says dead-pan, managing to keep her expression neutral for only a few seconds before she laughs again. 

"Maybe we're all just tied together by the strings of fate,  _ oOoOoH _ ~" she wiggles her fingers as she sings. " _ You'll never escape me, Jooohn _ ~"

John snorts and watches as Arthur's shoulders rise and fall with a barely-there sigh. Something in his expression says  _ exhausted _ . 

Exhausted from Abigail’s bad jokes, maybe.

 

"Well!" Abigail claps, stealing back John's gaze with a knowing raise of her brow.  _ Stare much? _ "How about we get goin'?"

"We were just waitin' on you," Arthur grumbles while John finishes the rest of his coffee in one final mouthful. John stands to set the cup in the sink, grabbing Arthur's on the way when he raises it to him in offering. 

"Well, I parked behind you, so I can drive - assumin’ you don't mind ridin’ bitch, Abigail," John suggests as he moves back to the table. Now that there’s only three of them, his truck will work just fine.

Susan swats at him from her chair for his language, getting John a good swipe on the ass before he can jump out of arm’s reach. Abigail snickers and then nods with an enthusiastic thumbs up - John knows she loves riding in his truck, regardless of where she actually sits. She could sit in the damn bed and still be fine with it.

 

 Abigail gets up from her chair and pats Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur stands and the room feels cramped. 

John tries not to let his gaze linger when Arthur looks over to him, but the way he watches him back pins John to the spot.

 

"Alright, momma - we might be back before the show, we might not." Abigail leans around Arthur to give Susan a tight hug. Susan gives her arms a little squeeze in response. "Have fun bakin' all these cookies."

"You're helping tomorrow," Susan grumbles. "Play well and behave yourselves."

Abigail grins, "Of course, momma."

"I'll keep her outta trouble, Ms Grimshaw," John adds from his safe distance away, in the doorway to the living room. He finally tears his eyes away from Arthur to watch Susan bark in dry laughter and look at John, unimpressed.

"Boy, that request will always be more for  _ you _ than it ever will be for her."

"That's… I'm not-" John stutters, face going hot in embarrassment.

"We'll  _ all _ stay out of trouble, Susan," Arthur interrupts, voice steady and arms crossed over his chest. 

_ They're on first-name terms already? _

But, he looks so serious that John wonders if he really means it.

 

Though, they hadn’t  _ exactly _ intended to start shit yesterday, either. He’s curious what Arthur even considers as trouble.

 

John gives Abigail a sidelong look over Susan's head, one that's returned by a knowing wink, but regardless, Susan seems appeased. She hums with a nod.

"Alright. Y'all drive safe, now."

 

After one final squeeze, Abigail releases her mother and the three of them head to the front room, grabbing coats and scarves.

"Mister Marston, a word if you don't mind?" Susan calls as Arthur is opening the front door. John sighs and looks at Abigail with a frown. He gestures to the front yard.

"I'll catch up."

""If you say so, sug," Abigail murmurs, squeezing John's arm before she walks out the door. Arthur doesn't say anything before he leaves.

Shuffling back into the kitchen, John is surprised when Susan just gives him a tight hug. It's out of character for both of them. He's not sure where to put his hands - he pats her on the back with an unsteady rhythm. 

Didn't he do the same thing with someone last night?

 

"I'm sorry. I was harsh on you, John," Susan says, pulling back to hold John at arm's length. She pats his scarred cheek and gives him the warmest smile he's ever seen. Maybe he should be concerned.

"I worried about you every single day - I'm so glad you're back around."

John flushes, touched by her sincerity. He tries to hold their eye contact as he nods. It's difficult, to say the least.

"Missed you too, Ms. Grimshaw."

"Alright, I've taken enough of your time. Take this with you." 

Susan takes one of the cookies from the rack on the counter and presses it gently into John's hand. Some of the sugar comes off onto his palm.

"Thanks,” John says, soft, while he stares down at his hand. The cookie is still warm - warmer than his fingers, at least. He keeps his eyes down as he turns back to the front door, watching one foot move in front of the other until he’s got to stop to open the door.

Something in his head tells him not to look back.

 

Shutting the door behind him quietly, John finally bites into the cookie and raises his eyes. Abigail and Arthur are both leaning against his truck, talking so softly that John can’t hear them from across the yard. They stop once they see him - Abigail waves.

As John gets closer, he can hear her snort.

“She gave you a cookie? She wouldn’t even let me anywhere near them.”

John pops the rest of it into his mouth, shrugging as he chews.

“ _ Obviously _ she loves me more than you.” Flour muffled and sarcastic.

“‘Course she does,” Abigail laughs, slapping at John’s arm. 

He avoids her attack with a step to the side, pulling his gloves out of his coat pockets and slipping them on.

“Shall we, then?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

 

John rounds the truck to the driver’s seat, climbing up and in. He leans across the modified bench seat to unlock the passenger side door and Abigail immediately hops up, settling in beside him like a bird settles onto a familiar roost.

He feels the truck suspension dip, lean, and settle when Arthur steps up. The older man whistles in appreciation as he buckles his seat belt.

 

"Nice lookin' truck, Marston."

"Thanks," John murmurs as he starts the engine with a roar- thankfully, it doesn't stutter this time. He doesn't either.

"He restored it himself," Abigail pins on. She liked to brag for him, since he would never. 

"Really?" John can see Arthur look over at him in his peripheral while he’s twisting to look behind them. They back out of the driveway and onto the road.

"Hosea helped a lot. There's no way I could have done it on my own," he explains while he shifts back into gear, glancing over at Arthur in time to see an odd smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

Sad, not disappointed. Reminiscent.

 

"Hosea your dad?" Arthur asks, smile already gone, leaving just his attention scattered on the details of the truck interior. They'd tried to restore as much as they could to stay true to the original design. Aside from the glossy new radio face-plate, it was like going back in time. It had taken well over two years to complete, almost like three, but the truck was worth it.

"Uncle," John corrects. He doesn't really want to elaborate any further on their relationship, not if he could help it.

Arthur hums in understanding. Doesn't ask any more questions.

 

“You wanna know what he calls this thing?” Abigail asks, in a harsh, conspiratorial tone - too  _ loud _ to be a ‘whisper’. John elbows her in the arm, but a quick glance over tells him Arthur’s already looking between Abigail and him with his eyebrows raised.

“What, Trucky McTruckface?” he guesses. Abigail barks out in laughter and John squints down along the road, torn between being offended and wanting to laugh. An odd sort of shrill hum comes out of him instead. He clears his throat and pouts.

“I’ve had this truck for longer than that joke’s been around.”

 Now it’s Arthur’s turn to laugh. “You’ve got a point there.”

“We should rename it!” Abigail suggests, book ended by giggles. She takes a deep breath, patting John’s knee in a silent apology while she calms down. “Seriously, though, it’s Old Boy.”

“ _ Old Boy _ ?” Arthur asks, incredulous. John shrugs, taking one hand off the steering wheel to pat the dashboard affectionately.

“He’s  _ old _ .”

“ _ Wow _ .”

“Shut up,” John grumbles, giving the dash one last stroke. Whispers, “He’s just jealous, Boy.”

“I was just thinkin’ it’d be more creative, is all,” Arthur says, running a hand through his hair and sweeping it back. John looks back to the road.

The cabin falls into silence but for the rumbling of Old Boy’s engine. 

Abigail reaches to fiddle with the dials on the radio - John had never turned it back on after his drive over - skipping through waves of static and the too many local Christian country-rock stations until a familiar cry of trumpets blares from the speakers.

John groans, "God,  _ no _ . Please."

Abigail turns the radio up louder with a wild cackle - the music is so loud, it’s on the verge of painful. John reaches to shift it a few clicks down. If he had to listen, he didn’t want to go deaf, too.

 

_ Love is a burning thing _

_ And it makes a fiery ring. _

_ Bound by wild desire _

_ I fell into a ring of fire _ .

 

Arthur laughs, hearty and deep in his chest, when Abigail starts to sing along, trying to stay down in Cash's low range and failing miserably. Arthur joins her, exaggerating his own odd accent to parody and sounding considerably better. 

John just tries to focus on the road ahead and not the goosebumps that Arthur's voice raises on his arms.

_ Stupid. _

He grips the steering wheel a little tighter, takes a deep breath.

Hums along to the song, too. Softly.

Abigail bumps her shoulder into his with a grin.

 

_ I went down, down, down, _

_ And the flames went higher. _

_ And it burns, burns, burns, _

_ The ring of fire. _

_ The ring of fire. _

 

***** G H O S T S *****

 

Don't Fret is at the western end of a shitty looking strip-mall on the south side of town. Half of the stores are closed - gone out of business, some for a good few years, others as recently as last month. If you didn't know about the store, you wouldn't really know it was here. There's no sign on the building, but there is a vinyl decal on the door that's about five by three inches in size.

John found them from a sticker on the top of a fence post a few miles out of town. He’d searched for the name online and found a website, but all it had contained was an address in red font on a black screen.

They were  _ that _ underground.

It was part of the appeal, really. Like they'd found a secret society in the middle of a mundane town.

 

Pulling into the parking lot, there's an orange " _ everything must go _ " sign in the window. It's small and unassuming - more like a post-it note, really.

"You've gotta be shittin' me!" Abigail turns the radio down as John pulls the truck up into the front row of spots, right in front of the door. The sign really doesn’t attract much attention at all. 

"First I’ve heard of this," John mumbles, reaching beside Abigail's leg to throw the truck into park. Like, either no one knew about the closure, or everyone thought he wouldn’t have cared - Sean, Karen? Hosea, even. 

Cutting the engine, he can practically hear Abigail's pout in the subsequent silence.

"Well, at least your strings will be cheap?" he says, lamely, ignoring his own disappointment. Losing Don’t Fret felt like losing a big part of his youth, with all the days he and Abigail spent here, dreaming of their futures.

 

Arthur clears his throat and unbuckles his seat belt. None of them move to get out.

A full moment passes before Abigail starts wriggling in impatience, kicking at his and Arthur's legs.

"Someone get outta the damn truck already!" She growls. 

When John opens the door latch, Abigail throws her full body weight into him and John tumbles out of his truck and onto the asphalt. Thankfully, his gloves stop his palms from scraping when he gracelessly catches himself on the ground. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn't sure he was safely hidden from Arthur’s view.

"Fuckin' Christ,  _ calm down _ ," he swears, brushing the dirt off his pants, but Abigail’s already stomping to the front door and kicking it open. The bell clangs loud, rattling on its hook from Abigail’s abuse.

“Hey! Where is that son of a bitch?” she’s swearing, shouting loud over the heavy metal playing in the store. John and Arthur follow her inside.

Kieran, Don’t Fret’s longest standing employee and one hell of a nervous wreck - worse than John, and that was saying something - is already cowering, wide-eyed and unsteady, behind the register counter. Abigail’s just short of grabbing him by the collar and shaking him before John walks up and puts a hand on Abigail’s shoulder. He pulls her back a step.

“What she means, Kieran, is: hey, nice to see ya. Is the place really closing?” he offers as a translation, calm and level like when he speaks to the horses if they get spooked at the ranch. Abigail shakes her head aggressively, rolling her shoulder to knock his hand off.

“Nope, I meant ‘ _ where the fuck is he _ ?’” she demands, emphasizing her question with thumping a fist on the counter. Kieran actually jumps, followed by wild gesturing around the empty store.

“H-He ain’t here!”

Abigail crosses her arms, looking up to the elevated office in the far corner of the store, scoffing in disgust. The lights are off, shutters closed over the window that overlooks the space. 

“‘Course he ain’t.  _ Coward _ .”

 

“So, how long’s the place got?” John asks, tracing the shape of one of the many band stickers on the counter top with his fingers. Kieran takes a breath and pushes a hand through his messy hair. He shrugs.

“Maybe ‘til the end of the month. I-If we’re lucky.”

“Business has been that slow?”

“No, and that’s the k-kicker!” Kieran frowns, his wispy mustache pulling down at the corners. He’s shaking, just barely, if John focuses on his hands. “Some m-mega-corporation wants to build a store in town, so they’ve been t-trying to buy the whole strip. We’re the only ones who haven’t sold.”

“Lemmy guess - there’ve been a lot more ‘accidents’ since y’all rejected the offer?” Arthur asks, sounding a bit tired as he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. Kieran glances his way and nods with a nervous furrow of his eyebrows. Arthur sighs, gaze flickering over to John and Abigail. John squints back, trying to figure him out.

“You know the name of the buyer?” Arthur prods.

“N-Not offhand. I’d have to check if we still have the offer letter,” Kieran combs his hand through his hair again. Some pieces stick straight up - he looks wild.

 

Arthur hums, but doesn’t press any further. Abigail’s wandering off towards the accessories, grumbling under her breath. Arthur claps John on the shoulder briefly before he’s following after her, leaving John at the counter with the impression of his cologne. Kieran gives him an unsteady smile - he always liked the guy, even if he made John anxious after a while with all his nerves. His taste in music wasn’t the best, either. For a metal-head, he had a habit of picking some weird shit. Some of it was good, but the bad was  _ real _ bad.

As if on cue, a low guitar line starts over the speakers. It sounds infantile, over processed - like a child wearing adult clothes, trying to waddle around in too-big shoes.

When the vocals layer in, unintelligible and muddled, John tries not to cringe. He might laugh.

 

“Y-Your girl is still here, John,” Kieran says, soft enough that the others couldn’t possibly hear. Not over this shit music, anyway. “Don’t think she’s gonna get b-bought before we close.”

John sighs, pinching between his eyes. “So, get my time in while I can, you’re sayin’?”

“I mean, I don't know w-where she’s goin’ after everything. P-Pretty sure she’ll get sold off with the rest of the inventory.”

“I’ll think about it, but uh, probably not,” John murmurs, tapping the counter top in goodbye. He shuffles off in the opposite direction of Abigail and Arthur, towards the wall of guitars on display in the far corner. Maybe he can just admire from a distance.

 

John remembers the first time he’d ever stepped foot in Don’t Fret. It was a completely different world to the rest of Amarillo, but the guitar wall had been straight up  _ daunting _ . There were so many types, variations, brands. What was good? Would someone laugh at him for picking the ‘wrong’ one? How did he know?

 

Now, the wall is just white noise, filling the empty space. Sure, there are a lot of beautiful guitars in a variety of colors and finishes. He'd tried a lot of them out in the past - most of them sounded pretty good and felt nice in his hands - but there was only one guitar he cared about, now. The only one locked in a glass case among the hollow-bodies, like Snow White in her casket, a beautiful display to admire. 

But, she wasn’t locked up just because she was beautiful. 

She was expensive.

_ Really _ expensive. 

Like, John would never be able to justify spending that much on an instrument, sort of expensive. 

 

‘Baby’ was a custom Gibson Le Grande with the prettiest toasted powder-blue lacquer finish and a tortoise shell pickguard. Brass accents and tailpiece, carved maple body with a  rosewood fretboard. She was capable of _so much_ _more_ than John would know what to do with, if he had her. 

From what he'd heard, someone ordered her special and then flaked on the pick-up after only paying half of the build fees. Eventually making her way to the store, she's been sitting in her case for a few years now. 

Waiting.

 

He’d first played her as a goof - he and Abigail, once they quickly became store regulars after school on Fridays, tested most of the guitars and mandolins in the store. They didn’t have the money for anything, so everything was a dream at that point. One day, to mix it up, John chose a mandolin for Abigail and she picked a guitar for him. 

She'd picked the Le Grande ( _ 'It's so prettyyy!' _ ) and John hasn’t been able to play another guitar in the store since.

Abigail was luckier, since the mandolin she’d tried that day was a great instrument  _ and _ affordable. It made its way home with her about a year later, when she’d made big strides in her musical career. The same one she used at the show last night.

 

Baby's price tag still sits looped around the volume knob - $9,800, knocked down from $14,000 with the closing sale,

John frowns. That was still  _ so _ much money.

 

"So, that's her?"

 

John jumps with an undignified shout, spinning to face Arthur who,  _ somehow, _ managed to sneak up well within his personal space. Arthur, now with his jacket slung over his shoulder and his hand in his jeans pocket, grins at his reaction but nods his head towards the case. John slumps, heart still stuttering from his scare. He bites his lip - this was exactly why he didn't want to fucking leave his apartment. 

He was just going to embarrass himself here.

"Expensive," Arthur hums, unaffected by John's silence. He walks over to the case, leaning in to take a closer look at the craftsmanship of the instrument. "Abi mentioned your 'Baby' earlier. Didn't think you'd have such high tastes."

John crosses his arms, feeling his cheeks go hot - he’s blushed more in the last day than he has all year, honestly - and his stomach drops. He knew the guitar was too good for someone like him, if Arthur could tell after knowing him for just one day-

"You wanna take her for one last spin?" Arthur interrupts, knocking his thoughts off-rail. John looks up from where his gaze had fallen to the carpeted floors. The older man is watching him with an unexpected eagerness in his expression that throws a wrench in the wheels of his anxiety.

_ What? _

"C'mon, Marston. They got practice booths here, right?" Arthur presses. John frowns. He must have said that out loud. 

"Yeah, they got 'em."

"Show me what you like so much about her, then."

"I, uh, I don't think-" John stutters. What's a good reason to say no that doesn't make him come off as a total loser?

_ I broke my fingers and now they just don't move the way they used to.  _

_ I got kicked by a horse at the ranch and have forgotten how music works. _

_ I have a horrible inferiority complex and I'll never be good enough to play next to you. _

_ Sorry, I'm just a bass player. _

 

"I ain’t gonna make fun of ya, if you’re worried. I might be mean, but I ain’t a jackass," Arthur says, his tone gone a bit soft around the edges, like tumbled sea glass. John watches as he walks back beside him, cocking his head with a grin that manages to settle some of the fluttering panic in John's gut. "'Sides, I don't think you'd be the worst guitarist I've ever heard. That's a pretty hard thing to top."

John raises an eyebrow at him, interested. "Who's the worst?"

"Whoever the fuck is playin’ in this goddamn song right now," Arthur barks with a laugh, pointing at one of the mounted overhead speakers. John snorts before falling in with his own laughter. 

Kieran's music  _ really _ sucked.

Arthur’s laugh was  _ really  _ contagious.

 

"Okay, okay," he surrenders, breathless, and brings his hands up in defeat. "But if you start laughin', I'm kickin' you outta the room."

"Deal," Arthur accepts with a shrug. John sighs through his nose, mostly to collect the last of his shaking nerves, and looks back at the register. He can just barely see Kieran's wild mop of hair over the shelves, bobbing along to the beat of the song. 

 

"Kieran!" he shouts. Kieran's response is an immediate and hysterical giggle, a thumbs-up thrust above his head, and the jangling of a key ring. 

John huffs out a laugh and sighs again. His heart feels like it might burst out of his chest with how fast it's beating. As if on cue, Arthur bumps him in the side with his elbow, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make John sway on his feet. 

"Calm down, doofus," he rumbles. The low rumble of his voice, bizarrely, reminds John of his old cat. He wonders what Arthur would think of that. John looks at the slope of his jaw and some stupid part of his brain imagines giving him scritches. 

_ Would he purr, too? _

Arthur squints back at him, suspicious, and John has to cough into his palm to keep from laughing out loud. 

_ Jesus _ , he has issues.

 

"Okay. A-Ah, sorry, I'm here," Kieran mumbles in a rush, scurrying past the two of them and to the guitar case. He fumbles with the keys for a good moment before he can get the door unlocked. Kieran's much more gentle - terrified, even - handling the guitar. He is every time John watches him do this.

Of course, he'd be pretty damn careful if he had to maneuver something that expensive off of a wall, too.

 

Once Baby is safely out of her case, Kieran leads them towards the far back corner of the store. There, down a small hallway, are the sound-proofed practice rooms - three, John's intimately familiar with them all. Kieran gestures towards the first one, a shaky nod of his head, and lets John and Arthur enter first.

Kieran hands over the guitar and John takes the seat closest to the amp, swallowing down his heart that's found its way into his throat. Arthur sits in the chair nearer to the door, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees - a mirror of last night at Pearson's, John waits for his expression to darken. 

_ Oh, I know this one’s special , darlin’. _

It never does.

 

John is distracted, attention caught between watching Arthur and the weight of Baby in his hands, that he almost doesn't notice Kieran pulling an amp cable out of one of the pockets of his cargo pants. He only fumbles a little when he takes it from him.

"Thanks, Kieran," he murmurs, plugging the cable in on both ends. The nervous man shifts his weight back and forth between his feet and gives him a thumbs-up.

It's very awkward, but very  _ Kieran _ .

"T-take as long as you want, man."

 

With that, Kieran is out of the room in a flash, shutting the door behind him softly and leaving John alone with his fears and silence. The windowless room feels much smaller with Arthur inside, cramped in a way that's uncomfortably close to claustrophobic. Thankfully, he at least doesn't have to deal with him staring - Arthur, maybe out of politeness or consideration, keeps his eyes on the wall across from him. 

 

To help him focus, John fiddles with the tuning keys, angling Baby's neck just beside his ear and tapping the strings to adjust the pitch. 

This part was familiar. He could do this.

 

It doesn't take long to get her in tune - he double checks his work with an electric tuner left in the room. His B was just barely flat, but he fixes that with a little  the fine tuning key.

John turns on the amp and checks the knob values - nothing too loud or any heavy effects on the sound. He wanted the clarity in Baby's tone that she was so good at. Anything else would just be wasteful. 

John settles his hands across the strings, fingers finding their places on the fretboard and over the bridge. The rest of his body settles with him, heart rate lowering and mind going calm like still waters.

It was like coming home.

A neglected home that needed a lot of repairs and renovations, but home all the same.

 

The only question now was what to play? He slides his hand down the frets, his aimlessness embodied in the zip of the strings through the amp.

 

"It's been a while, huh?" Arthur voices, soft. Kind. 

John looks up from the guitar to him and nods, not sure if he needs to spill all of his insecurities to Arthur. He would, if he opened his mouth now, whether he wanted to or not. Arthur doesn't seem to mind his silence.

"There anything you remember well?" he prompts, rubbing at his chin. John hums and his mind goes back to this morning. 

The Facebook video, the memory of Abigail's audition, playing on the cold stone steps outside of a grand stage. Telling, now that neither of them were in the classical circuit anymore. 

"I got somethin'," John murmurs while he lets his hands find where they need to be. Like every practice after school, staying up late to help Abigail reach heights he would only dream of. 

_ The Girl From Ipanema. _

 

It's surprisingly easy to play - maybe it's the guitar, maybe the piece is just ingrained in his mind from how often he'd played it with Abigail. He makes a few mistakes, some easily corrected finger placements or muted mis-picked strings. Not near as bad as he thought after years of not so much as touching an instrument.

He gets caught up in the melody, trying to capture how Abigail's voice floated above his accompaniment all those years ago. He thinks about all the jazz records he'd listened to growing up in Hosea's home, all the wild guitarists who could improvise solos to go down in music history. His fingers skip across the frets cleaner, faster. Plays with the syncopation, slides up an octave and back down without overshooting. He starts to feel giddy, even.

He's floating and everything just pours out of his hands like clean water from a spring quenching a long thirst.

 

John doesn't notice Arthur singing under his breath until he goes lower than the melody he's playing. A low rumble of thunder over the notes, he's enamored by the sound.

 

_ Ah, por que estou tão sozinho? _

_ Ah, por que tudo é tão triste? _

 

The spring stops up without notice and, flustered, John changes back to full accompaniment out of habit. Chords, steady, supporting.

But, Arthur doesn't sing any louder. Doesn't take up the offer to lead.

He actually stops singing altogether.

 

_ Oh. _

 

John looks up and Arthur gestures to Baby. This time, the stage is his and his alone. 

John nods and manages to find his groove again without much trouble, picking back up almost like he'd never stopped. It's surprising, but wild and refreshing and John breezes through the rest of the piece like he'd always wanted to play. Naturally, free to embellish how he liked.

_ Why couldn't I have felt this way back then? _

 

When he's finished, last notes reverberating from the amp with a gradual softness, John looks back up to Arthur. The older man is ecstatic, grinning broadly with his chin propped in his hand.

" _ Damn _ , boy. Abi said you could play, but that was somethin' else!" he laughs. John looks back down to the guitar in his hands, heart torn between pride and embarrassment. His face gets red either way.

_ Por que no los dos? _

 

"How many years has it been and you can still  _ play  _ like that?"

"Uh, almost five. 'Least since I was playin' on any kind of regular basis."

" _ Goddamn -  _ ça c'est bon, cher!" Arthur exclaims with a slap to his knee, the praise obvious even if John didn't understand the words. Sounded… French? 

John's confusion must be obvious - it's Arthur's turn to look embarrassed. He wipes a hand down his face and pulls at his mouth, like he was trying to take the words from his lips. He sighs and his gaze falls to the floor, by the amp.

"You're a great player, John. I mean it."

"T-thanks," John mumbles. He's not sure what to do with his hands now. He turns down the amp and the electric humming fades. The room is quiet but he swears his heartbeat must be audible beyond his chest.

"What made ya stop?" Arthur asks, eyes still focused downward. John bites his cheek, taps his foot.

"I, uh… I didn't think I'd ever be good enough for Abigail or... anybody."

"Really?" Now Arthur looks up, confused in his disbelief. John shrugs - what else can he say?

"Boy, Abi already thinks you hung the goddamn moon in the sky. You might be a little rusty, sure, but you've got the chops for this shit and then some," Arthur reassures. “Besides, what kind of shit logic is that? You ain’t gonna get any better unless you work at it.”

John hums, partially in thought but also since he doesn't know how to respond.

_ Thanks for the advice, I know I’m an idiot. Totally not obvious. _

_ That was the performance of my life and you were the only one to hear it. _

 

"You wanna work a song with me?"

 

Arthur's question throws John out of orbit - so far off course, he’s drifting aimlessly in the abyss - and he stares, open-mouth gaping, until Arthur tilts his head as if to say  _ 'well?' _ Like he isn't asking John to do something utterly impossible.

"I, uh, I don't think-"

It's a repeat of earlier, John sputtering and looking like a fool while Arthur tolerates his insecurities. This time, he doesn't stop him from bowing out - he just smiles and nods.

"I mean, I don't know if I could," John finishes in a rush. Arthur shrugs.

No hard feelings?

 

A hard knock on the door makes John jump, gripping Baby's neck tight in a reflexive attempt to keep from dropping her on the floor. The force of his fingers makes an odd strangling hiss from the amp. Arthur glances his way, confused and concerned in equal parts, before the knocking takes an aggressive turn, like someone slapping their hands against the door wildly.

Kieran?

 

"JOHN MARSTON!"

 

Abigail. 

Muffled by soundproofing foam, but it's unmistakably her. John sighs but Arthur is the one who gets up and opens the door.

"You know these doors don't lock, right?" he gripes, voice low and gruff.,

"Huh? Arthur? Where’s John?" Abigail asks. Arthur angles his body, just enough that Abigail can see into the room and find the answer to her question.

Her face peeks around Arthur's shoulders and the way she looks at John is something he has trouble interpreting. Bewildered, maybe a little excited if he focuses enough on the shine in her eyes. Nervous?

"John. You played? For Arthur."

It's not a question or a statement, lost in its own ambiguity. John nods, providing her that confirmation as if the guitar in his lap wasn’t enough. Abigail pushes past Arthur, gliding towards him until she's sat in the chair beside him with a hand on his knee. Her muddy expression changes into something bright. The glimmer in her eyes now from obvious tears threatening to spill. 

John wills away the impulse to brush them away.

“So goddamn dramatic,” he whispers to her, instead. She grins.

 

"He's good," Arthur offers while he sits back down, knowing full well that Abigail will  _ wholeheartedly  _ agree. On cue, she nods furiously and glances Arthur’s way with such a genuine intensity that it makes John uncomfortable. 

 

_ Something is wrong, _ his heart insists.

 

"I told ya!"

“Never had a reason to doubt it, even if your man here is as jittery as a crackhead when he ain’t got a guitar in his hands.”

“Fuck off,” John spits, though he can’t bring himself to insert any actual malice in his words. Arthur wasn’t wrong - he’d even been reported for drug use to his guidance counselor in high school by a ‘concerned student’. They’d even called Hosea in for some half-assed intervention but his uncle had just laughed the two of them out of the office.

 

"Asked him to do a song with me, actually," the older man adds. John jerks alert, catching Arthur's gaze and Cheshire grin from over Abigail’s shoulder.

_ Oh _ .

Abigail gasps and John narrows his eyes.

"Tell me you said  _ yes _ , John - I swear to  _ God _ ." She squeezes his leg hard enough to hurt. John frowns at Arthur and Abigail shakes him. Arthur raises his brows, a silent prompt for an answer for the second time.

 

_ ‘Well?’ _

 

"You  _ goddamn _ son of a  _ bitch _ ," John spits, realizing Arthur's manipulation. The older man's grin goes sharp - there's the wolf.

It was with them all along, stalking the edges of their conversation.

Waiting for him to let his guard down.

 

" _ John _ ," Abigail prods, a little exasperated. John forces his attention back to her, to her impatient and  _ very _ unimpressed look she's directed at him. John scratches at his cheek, digging his fingers in at the scars a little harder than necessary just to make it hurt. 

Why, he couldn’t tell you.

 

"I… I said I'd  _ think _ about it," he concedes. Abigail squeals and Arthur smirks at him from across the practice room. It’s small enough, John fantasizes about lunging from his chair and punching the older man right in the mouth. Would he strike hard enough to make him spit teeth? Would the hurt in his knuckles be worth the blood? Would Arthur undoubtedly return the favor tenfold and  _ destroy  _ him?

Probably.

Above all, Abigail might get angry.

 

Like he could sense his intent and animosity, Arthur leans back in his chair, scooting it a few inches away on the carpet and casually adding distance between them. He blinks slow, a challenge and an insult rolled into one.

 

“Easy there,  _ cowboy _ .”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever had a dream that just straight fucked you up for the rest of the day?
> 
>  
> 
> Kieran's song is "Thunder Kiss '65" by Rob Zombie. Sorry to anyone who is a fan of his, but _goddamn_. The first time I heard that song (on the radio, early morning, on the way to the airport), I almost died laughing.  
> Like, I couldn't understand anything he said/sang aside from: "NINETEEN SIXTY... FIVE, FIVE, FIVE".  
> [Thunder Kiss '65](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPNFVj-pISU)
> 
> Abigail's audition song - with both languages! [The Girl From Ipanema](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=soWqSb5FZZg)
> 
> Johnny Cash truck singalong [Ring of Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It7107ELQvY)
> 
> [Hit me up, homies](https://berwynrose.tumblr.com/)


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